


Homeward Rolling Soldier

by shotgunsinlace



Series: Dawn Chasers [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brief Prompto/Cindy, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Pining, Politics, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Spoilers for all DLCs, Suggestive Themes, eventual polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 86,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: Five years after the passing of the 114th King, the kingdom of Lucis thrives with newfound hope, picking up the pieces ravaged by a decade of ruin. The same can’t be said for Prompto Argentum, now a weapons mechanic at Hammerhead, as he struggles to find meaning in the remains of the life he lost the day the dawn returned. His monotonous routine, however, is thrown for a loop when a spectral dog appears to be waiting for him at the side of an empty road.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written long-fic in what feels like _years_. I started this game the day it launched, lost it when I moved to a new apartment, then found it a couple of months ago when I moved again. Needless to say, my entire lifeforce has been consumed by these four boys, and now here I am.
> 
> As for this story, it is my child and a product of me sitting in a daze for a solid two weeks after finishing the game. The level of denial came to a peak around November 1st when I decided to sit down and write the first solid chunk of this for NanoWrimo. After lots of editing and tweaking, here it is. I tried, oh boy did I try, to keep it as canon-compliant as possible, so consider this your warning for potential spoilers. (Along with some reaching on my behalf because what are canonical inconsistencies and plot gaps. I mean, isn't this what fic is for anyway??? Heh.)
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort and hardcore pining. Told entirely from Prompto's POV, this is a story about Sunshine Boy coming to terms with the fact that it's perfectly okay to love more than one person, that someone's value isn't relevant to what they can or can't do, and that maybe, just maybe, if you yell loud enough the gods will get their shit together and take pity on the occasional gunslinger who really misses his best friend.

_It tickles – having a fish nibble on his toes._

_After the initial backtracking and cringing at sensations he isn’t used to, Prompto stands perfectly still as the water laps around his ankles, sand shifting beneath him. The water is clear enough to see the glimmering surface of polished stones, as well as the chipped and rough exterior of ancient sea shells, washed ashore._

_He doesn’t know where he is and the sudden realization expands in his chest. Panic rolls in like the waves that stretch out in front of him, pulling him deeper into the endless ocean. There’s nothing to hold onto, no anchor keeping him in the safety of the sandy beach._

_If he focuses hard enough he can hear voices coming from behind him, familiar ones, arguing in jest about something he can’t quite make out._

_His own voice breaks when he tries to call out for help, like fingernails snapping vocal chords one at a time._

_He can’t turn his back towards the ocean._

_His feet refuse to move out of fear of a misstep that will plunge him into the depths, pulling him under – down, down, down where there is nothing but frigid darkness and crushing pressure around his chest._

_“Hey, Prompto!”_

_There’s respite in the hand that latches around his wrist and pulls. He trips over rocks, stumbles, but more hands keep him up before he can end up with a mouthful of sand._

_The water is colder now, seeping into his bones._

_“Mind where you step or else you will hurt yourself.”_

_“Yeah, and it ain’t my turn to wipe blood off the tent.”_

_A shaky smile stretches across his face when the vague silhouette of his friends drift into view. They are nothing but weak shadows against the bright sun that burns through his eyelids, imprinting itself in his retinas like the harsh fluorescent glow of laboratory lights._

_Two. Two shadows. Not three._

_Prompto needs to ask. Instead, he reaches out for something to hold onto when words continue to fail._

_His hands are met with a weight he much rather never hold. Not again. Not ever again since the day his fingers wrapped around the cold steel of a sword, followed by dead weight._

Dead weight.

_Only two shadows. Never again three._

_There is nothing but darkness when he opens his eyes, standing alone on a beach he doesn’t remember. A weak fire burns behind him. Just like every other bright thing he’s ever held dear – it is all behind him. And he is left with nothing but the crushing abyss of the dark before him._

***

It’s the heat that wakes him. That unbearably humid heat he can never seem to get used to, clinging to his skin as badly as his clothes do when he’s asleep. Not even shorts are a safe bet, riding up and sticking to the worst places imaginable.

The only reason why he doesn’t sleep naked is that the sheets will then stick, feeding the vicious cycle until all he can do is flop onto the itchy carpet that has seen better days.

Blindly reaching for his phone to check the time, Prompto squints and groans at the brightness of the screen, having forgotten to adjust the setting before passing out some three hours ago.

_Four o’clock. Still dark out._

They may not be the fancy suites of the Leville, but at least the hotel rooms facing Lestallum’s main street have proper curtains. Curtains he totally forgot to draw before collapsing onto the bed out of sheer exhaustion, but at least they have them.

The ceilings, however, definitely need some serious patching up. If he squints just so he can see the gas and power lines that keep the town alive, but he may just be imagining things. He’s gotten pretty good at that lately.

Sitting up, Prompto sheds his damp shirt and stretches before slumping with a yawn that makes his jaw crack. It’s not the fullest night of sleep he’s gotten in a couple of weeks, but it’s sure enough to keep him going for another day once he gets something in his stomach.

It takes a solid two minutes of blank staring before gathering enough energy to get up on his feet and head to the bathroom for a quick – not to mention freezing – shower. Because hot water is a luxury one has to pay extra for, apparently.

He scrubs his scalp once he’s gotten used to the temperature. It’s better than the stupid heat, anyhow.

Prompto scrubs, scrubs, and then scrubs some more. He scrubs until his arms grow tired and only then he stops, leaning against the slick tile of the shower.

He wishes he could scrub away the remnants of his dreams, at least whatever he can remember of them. They’re always fragmented pieces he can never put together once he wakes up, but the feeling of dread lingers until long after the day is done. Even then, the bitter taste remains.

Maybe the drive back to Hammerhead will help clear things up. Having to focus on the road is definitely something to keep his mind from wandering more than it already does. Just a day’s drive, and then he can put his attention towards the new engine tune-up Cindy has him working on.

And Cindy. For the love of the Six, _Cindy_.

Maybe he ought to drive all the way to Ravatogh instead. Open his own joint, never look back and all that.

But of course, he won’t. He’s going to step out of the shower, get dressed, go through the hunt list as a just in case, get in the car, and drive back to the dusty outskirts he calls home. Because what else is there to do?

Throwing on the same pair of jeans and shirt he’s been wearing for the better part of a week, he makes himself a cup of instant coffee and pops it into the microwave.

By five in the morning, once he’s done polishing his guns, he packs up his few belongings and swings them over his shoulder.

He locks the door behind him, hangs up the key at the front desk, and heads out into Lestallum’s barren streets.

The town hasn’t been the same once Lucian refugees began to return to their ravaged homes. They had struggled to accommodate the number of people who had flocked here more than a decade ago, and they struggle now to get back on their feet during the aftermath.

This early in the morning there is no music, no chatter of dozens of locals and tourists. He goes by unnoticed by the few who are out and about, setting up their wares for the day.

The uneven cobblestone beneath his boots almost make him trip, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s trying to hurry.

_Not that there’s anywhere to run to, is there?_

He can hear it all in the back of his head, see it in his mind’s eye: the countless nights they all spent here when they were young and lost. The kebabs shoved in his face, the recipes that were created, the photos that were taken, all the girls the big guy flirted with.

It doesn’t matter where he goes, how far he drives, there isn’t a single piece of Lucis he has not seen. Every outpost, every street, every rolling hill he can possibly think of is a background to every moment where he witnessed Ignis’ eyes gleam, or Gladio’s laugh echo, or Noctis’ stupid face.

Prompto throws his backpack into the backseat of his car and slams the door shut. There’s a tight fist around his heart, one that’s been there for years, that tightens and loosens whenever the hell it feels like it. Right now, it borders on the unbearable.

More so when the inky black of the sky begins to fade into dark shades of gray.

A scream too long left to perch in his throat is once more swallowed back with a sigh when Prompto walks up to the concrete railing that overlooks the Disc, resting his weight on his forearm as he watches the first bursts of daylight rise over the distant horizon.

Bright waves of orange and streaks of pink color the broad expanse of pale blue and indigo, followed by deep and scorching red.

A brief chill makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and Prompto smiles despite himself.

“Awesome light show, buddy,” he says to the wind and takes the first rays of sunlight against his skin as a reply.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me tell you how fun it is to write Cindy: a lot. I love this little grease monkey to bits. This is about the extent of it when it comes to Cindy/Prompto, it's some hardcore platonic friendship from here on out. Felt like it was important to point that out, just in case. 
> 
> Happy Thursday!   
> xoxo

He’s an hour out of Hammerhead when the car sputters and dies.

A quick look under the hood has him scratching his head. The battery has enough juice considering the radio and A/C are still working. He checks the headlights to be sure, but those flicker on and off without an issue.

No oil leak, no smoke. Turning the key in the ignition makes it click, but other than that, there’s nothing to help him pinpoint exactly what the problem is.

Either a faulty fuel pump or a busted alternator, then. But the truth is cars are not Prompto’s area of expertise.

It takes him twenty minutes’ worth of whining to himself about the injustices of life before he sucks up and calls the shop for a tow truck.

_I told you to get the engine checked_ this, _why didn’t you change the oil_ that. Cid is without a doubt serving as Cindy’s mouthpiece through the phone. Had it been up to him, he would have straight out told Prompto to walk as penance for his carelessness.

“Guess it’s time for an upgrade,” he tells his reflection in the side view mirror. “You couldn’t have waited for a couple more miles, huh?”

Plucking a bottle of water from the trunk and sitting on the hood, he waits. Part of him wishes he could blow a whistle and ride into the sunset on a rented chocobo, but alas, those days are far behind him. Whistles are hard to come by nowadays, and even if he did have one, he doubts his back can take any more abuse than it already has these last couple of days.

Just off the road, the bellowing sound of anaks catches his attention. He turns in time to get a glimpse of something white cut through the bushes to hide behind a rock. It’s gone in a flash, having only seen it out of the corner of his eye.

He straightens up, instinctively reaching for his gun as it sneaks closer to him, but a hint of pointy ears makes him hesitate.

Prompto bolts over the fence post to get a better look, a nagging feeling tugging him towards the rustling bush with something akin to doubtful hope.

Even if it hadn’t been true, it’s been over fifteen years since he last heard of the pup.

He stands on the other side of the boulder, debating whether or not he should look at all. Were he to walk away now, he could carry with him that faint flicker of hope that she may have survived after all. That by some miracle, she’s well into her old age and still kicking.

Of course, there is nothing more than a dinged up coin in the bush, much to his dissatisfaction. Silly hopes and silly dreams. That’s all he is this day in age.

Cid arrives on the scene in record time, finding Prompto sitting by the side of the road, elbows on his knees and facing the rocky outlands.

“What’s the matter, boy? Seems like you seen a ghost.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t put yourself down like that,” Prompto quips, earning him a kick to the side.

“Let’s get this hunk of scrap metal hooked up. You’re two days behind schedule.”

“I got distracted?”

Cid makes a double-take, apparently spotting something on Prompto’s face he doesn’t agree with. The sharp glare is enough to make Prompto flinch away towards the car, pretending to be busy. In fact, he searches for belts to tow the car with. Might as well be useful.

“You already have a job,” Cid says.

“One can never earn enough gil.”

“Hope it’s enough to cover your damn medical expenses.”

Prompto throws him a lopsided grin as he hooks up the front bumper to the wheel lift and locks it in place. Inside the car, he puts it on neutral. “You think this is bad,” he says, paying way too close attention to such a menial task, “you should’ve seen me back in the day.”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t a teenager anymore. Years stack up before you even know it. Suddenly, bam, you’re doing nothing but sitting under an umbrella seeing someone else do your work for you.”

“Feeling old, much?”

Cid pats him on the shoulder and says nothing else on the subject. “Let’s get going. I have a mechanic who’s ready to chop something up if she don’t get that charger in her shop before sundown.”

“Gotcha.”

Prompto climbs into the passenger’s seat, but not without scanning over the dusty fields one last time before shutting the door.

***

“Hope you done all that soul searchin’ you needed to do,” Cindy says, throwing the tow truck door open and nearly yanking Prompto down by the arm. “You’re late. Now, where’s my damn charger.”

Prompto holds his hands up, as a shield or to reassure, he isn’t entirely sure. “I got it, I got it!” He dodges out of the way of a playful punch and jogs over to his defunct car. “Thing’s seen better days but I’m sure we can whip something up.”

Trunk popped, he pulls back the tarp to reveal the rusty looking piece he’d been sent to Lestallum to get. Granted, he had volunteered to make the drive. Three days had turned into an easy week.

Cindy reaches over and picks up the charger with an ease born from someone who has been in the business for years. The thing is clunky and awkward to grab, but she wrangles it to rest under her arm and against her hip as she heads on over to the shop. “You leave this to me,” she calls over her shoulder. “In the meantime, you’ve got two mod orders waiting for ya at the front desk.”

Prompto salutes her, relieved at the lack of awkwardness he has been expecting since he left.

He gets to unloading the car along with Cid, abandoning it to the heap of rusted tin cans the shop uses for scraps. There’s no real attachment to it since it had only been used for the odd run out of Hammerhead. The only pain Prompto feels is having to revamp yet another car for business purposes. Knowing Cindy, she’ll make him do all the work for the sake of getting him to finally learn the ropes. Not that he minds. Keeping his hands busy keeps him entertained.

It’s early afternoon by the time he grabs something to eat, taking it with him to his own little lot in the garage.

Weapon upgrades and modifications are his real specialty, cranking up things like speed and mass for the run-of-the-mill hunter. Mostly blades of all sizes, he gets the occasional machinery that allows him to really sink his teeth in. It took him years to learn the ins and outs of gears and other technobabble, but where he currently stands he figures he can put together a damn good job once the project is done.

Of course, he always has Cid test the weapons out before they’re picked up. Never once has he gotten a bad review.

There’s a folder on the table which he goes through, carefully sifting through the orders they’ve picked up in his absence. More of the same with the exception of a lance. That’s definitely new. Only, it isn’t really.

Prompto nearly falls over in his hurry to get up from his stool and make it out the door to where Cindy is elbows deep in an engine. He sputters what he thinks may be words, but in reality is just a string of noises in varying tones of distress.

Cindy doesn’t bother looking up when she speaks. “Oh yeah, ‘bout that.”

“You could have at least texted me!”

“I did. Twice.”

“Neither time _related_.”

“So you did get them messages.”

Prompto opens his mouth, then shuts it. He looks away, scratching at his chin. “Sorry.”

“I forgive you if only ‘cause I feel sorry for those nasty bags under your eyes.” She finally straightens up, fixing him with a glare that is eerily similar to Cid’s. “That’s a pretty nasty gash on that pretty face of yours.”

“It’s nothing,” Prompto says, turning his back to her by pretending to be intrigued by a boxed set of pistons across the shop. “Got it stitched up. Good as new.”

“Mhmm.”

“For realsies.”

“Righty then.”

“Who delivered the lance?”

Prompto watches Cindy’s reflection through a panel of polished stainless steel as she grabs a rag and cleans her hands. She throws it into an empty bucket and makes a beeline for her toolbox. She goes through it twice before picking what it is she wants and returning to her project.

“A fellow with a nifty pair of shades. Old friend of yours, I reckon. May’ve seen him once or twice.”

Prompto can’t help the way his pulse quickens. “Was he alone?” He stammers just a bit but recovers quickly, looking around him as if Ignis himself would materialize right out of thin air. “When was this? Was he here long? Did he ask for me?”

“Nice lookin’ lady was with him. Kinda intimidating.” The purposeful vagueness of her tone makes him bristle. “Two days ago, not really, and yes.”

He comes dangerously close to yanking at his hair.

“Tell me again why you can’t just drop on by for a quick check-in,” Cindy says, sounding like she doesn’t expect an answer. Because she doesn’t. It’s a subject no one ever really touches on. “He seems perfectly fine with it.”

“It’s…” Prompto’s hand comes up to briefly touch the stitches on his cheek. “I’ll get the upgrades done by tomorrow,” he says instead, beating a hasty retreat into the safety of his office.

***

Cindy not so much knocks but threatens to break down the door to the caravan he’s been calling home for the past couple of years. She comes bearing gifts in the shape of soft drinks and garula shaped nuggets.

“Figured you’d need some fuel before calling it a night,” she says, shoving the beverage carrier right into his chest.

Prompto takes it as she closes the door behind her.

“Uh, right. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Cindy plops down on his couch, her threadbare polka dot pajamas sporting a stain that looks like dried ketchup. He can swear she’s worn the same pair every night since he decided to make Hammerhead his permanent home. Just as permanent as Cindy crashing on his couch.

“Have you and Cid ever considered expanding the business?” Prompto says if only to fill the silence with something other than his awkward laughter. “Sure, people are willing to drive all the way here but, like, think of the hunters at the old HQ. Feels like you guys would make a fortune if you spread out across Lucis.”

Cindy hums her approval.

“Tons more business. Kinda like Culthess. A shop everywhere for every need. Only, instead of selling weapons out the back of a van, we can mod them! That sounds like we’d put the guys out of business, but you know, maybe we can work out a plan. Like a joint venture! One that benefits all of us.”

“Sit down and eat, sugar.”

“Okay.”

Prompto sits on the floor with his back to the couch, throwing his sole blanket at Cindy. She takes it without a word and wraps it around her shoulders, reaching for a straw and popping it into her cup.

“Hate to break it to ya, but you’re the only one making this weird,” she says, addressing the behemoth in the room.

“Never pretended otherwise.”

Cindy bumps her knee into the side of his head. “We’re gonna have to talk about it sooner or later.”

“Can it be later?” A short pause before, “Okay fine. You’re not the reason why I… the reason why I _ran away_.”

“Well thank heck. I was starting to think I was a lousy lay.”

“N-No, you weren’t,” Prompto says, feeling his face grow hot. To think he’s a grown ass man. “It was nice. Definitely nice. Nothing wrong with you. It. You know, with what happened and stuff.”

“You’re doing a piss poor job at setting my mind at ease.” Cindy takes a sip of her drink before putting it down on the table in front of them. “Why you acting like a cat who’s doggone scared of the canary?”

“I mean it.” Prompto stares down at his meal, appetite gone. “It isn’t you.”

“Not what you thought it’d be, huh.”

Cindy always does have a tendency to pin her nail on the issue. There’s so much he wants to say, but words have become harder and harder to get out there the longer time passes.

“How long till you stop beating yourself up over it?” she says, and he can feel her presence pull away from him like a physical force.

“I don’t think there’s a straight answer to that.”

“Maybe not, but you gotta get your head back in the game sometime. Quit feelin’ sorry for yourself and all that.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” he grumbles, curling in on himself.

“Looks an awful lot like feeling sorry for yourself to me.”

Prompto focuses his sights on the small stove across the way, his fingers involuntarily picking at the dead skin around his fingernails. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Whatever it is he and Cindy have, much to his dismay, does not offer him the comfort of laying down his faults and weaknesses out in the open.

Sad, really. He honestly does like her a lot.

“You weren’t a pity lay,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I like myself too much to even consider doing anything along those lines.”

“I appreciate that.”

Cindy glances down at him, and it’s only then that he realizes her hair is pushed back and held in place by a thin headband. It’s a cute look on her, and it annoys him to no end that it all feels wrong and out of place. The fact that she has picked up on it makes things all the worse.

“You gotta take the time to sort out your heart. Not your head.”

“Right.”

They eat in silence. Or, mostly, Cindy does. Prompto pokes at his nuggets for the remainder of the evening, watching the stars twinkle into view through the caravan’s tiny windows.

“That sounds like something he would say,” he adds as an afterthought.

It’s another long moment before Cindy replies. “Coming up on five years now, innit?”

Prompto nods his head.

She sighs. “Take a break,” she says, and it sounds more like a command than a friendly suggestion. “Go on out there and take in the sights. You haven’t seen much of anything since you got here. You ought to go and report the rebuilding effort.”

He doesn’t want to. There’s a reason why he’s stayed in Hammerhead after all this time. “Lestallum was enough.”

“I don’t think it was,” Cindy shoots right back. “I think you should see the world the prince—”

“King,” Prompto instantly corrects. He stops picking at his nails when he remembers that breathing is a thing he should be doing. “He died a king.” The words fall heavy from his tongue, and he wishes for the ability to take them back. “He’s dead. He’s been dead for five years.”

Whoever said that speaking truths made things easier was a blatant liar. Same goes for the person who claimed that wounds healed over time. Noctis’ absence bleeds like an open wound day in and day out, regardless of what Prompto uses to try to staunch it.

His vision blurs and his eyelashes grow damp as he turns his head away from Cindy. Maybe she’s right. Maybe he does need to go out and see things other than the same four walls he sees every day.

Cindy gets to her feet only moments later. She leans over to ruffle his hair and give his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Sleep on it, will ya?”

He watches her walk away from him, quietly shutting the door behind her.

The clock above the door says it’s almost eleven.

Five years, and it still feels like yesterday. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t walk into a room and half expects to see Noctis catching a snooze in some corner. Or tapping away at his phone screen. Or just absently looking at the same night sky Prompto so ardently watches.

By the Six does he miss him. He misses all of them.

With a shuddering breath, Prompto presses the palm of his hands to his eyes. The caravan feels awfully empty, and he doesn’t know how to fix that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's! Have some angst from yours truly.
> 
> Added a few things to the notes on chapter one if you'd like to go and give that a once-over. Nothing too important so it's not entirely necessary to do so. Have a spiffy weekend, folks!

Prompto slips out of the caravan under the cover of darkness, with only the moon and the blinking neon sign of the diner casting shadows across the pavement. Buzzing bugs and gravel under his boots are the only sounds that disturb the otherwise quiet night as he crosses the lot, at a loss as to what to do and where to go.

He can’t keep running, trying to pretend that everything is normal when normalcy has been thrown into a loop he can’t catch up with. Prompto is stuck in every way he can possibly think of.

There are orders he needs to get done, and no doubt more to come.

Such a simple duty, so easily completed. No putting his life on the line. No higher purpose for him to serve.

Hammerhead is safety if nothing else.

He wonders what the others are doing. Never stopped to think why Ignis would need a lance modified, or if Gladio is even alive at this point in time. He doesn’t know where Talcott is, or Iris, or any other person that ever meant a damn to him. His world became so much smaller when the sun rose again, chasing a dream he wasn’t sure he wanted.

The beginning of an answer may just as well rest on a motorcycle parked alongside the gas pumps, the key in the ignition and a pack strapped to the seat.

Prompto walks up to it, touches his fingers to the handle. It’s the one Cindy has been working on for a couple of months now, but he hadn’t been made aware that it was ready to run.

“Figured you could use a new set of wheels,” Cindy says, nearly making Prompto jump right out of his skin. “I know you like to go fast.”

Prompto looks down at its sleek finish, the mirrored black reflecting the starless sky overhead. It’s a beautiful machine, no doubt rides like a dream, but a wedge of guilt keeps him from taking another step towards it.

“Cindy…”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” she says, giving him a gentle push towards it. The sun won’t be up for another couple of hours, but she’s already sporting her trademark red hat and yellow jacket. “Go. Be free. Take a couple pictures along the way. Haven’t seen you use that camera in a while.”

“I don’t know where to go.”

“Everywhere.”

“I—”

“Maybe you’ll find him somewhere.”

Prompto stares at her, at a loss of what she means. She gets it, it seems, because she elaborates with a sigh.

“When I first found that Cid was my grandad and not my real daddy, I was confused as all heck. Mostly just hurt a lot, ‘cause it felt like I didn’t belong.” Cindy looks him dead in the eye, unflinching. “Sometimes who you are don’t quite coincide with who you were, and it messes with your noggin. You’ll find something along the road to remind you why you’re still here, I guarantee it.”

Prompto worries his bottom lip with his teeth, unsure of what to say.

“Text if Ignis drops by again?” is what he settles on, awkwardly tapping the tip of his boot against the ground. “I promise I’ll reply this time.”

Cindy salutes him before bringing him into a tight hug that lasts as long as Prompto needs it to. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, taking in the sweet scent of oil and almonds that often lingers on her skin.

“You’re still my favorite girl,” he says, feeling some more of the same clenching in his chest. “It makes me happy, working with you.”

Cindy presses a kiss to his temple, squeezing him a little tighter. “I wish my heart were as big as yours, sugar. You got so much love in you it’d be a shame to see it waste away.” She laughs, a soft sound that tickles the hair beside his ear. “But I ain’t what you need, no matter how hard you try to make it so.”

Prompto gets that now, and what a sad realization that is. All these years he had been chasing an idea, tried to force it on himself, while blindly staring right at what truly mattered. Now he’s lost that, too.

“Galdin Quay,” he says, extricating himself from her strong arms. He sniffs, does a quick stretch, and slings a leg over the bike. “I think I’ll start there.”

The leather underneath him is cold but comfortable, and while his legs might grow numb after long hours of riding, his ass should be in tip-top shape at arrival.

“Ride hard, ride fast,” Cindy says, slapping his back before stepping away.

Prompto kicks up the stand and hits the ignition, revving up the engine and relishing at the smooth vibration that extends from the tip of his fingers to the soles of his feet.

He coasts to the edge of the road, momentarily overtaken by the fear that the headlights may not be powerful enough to keep daemons at bay. He laughs nervously to himself once he remembers that those fears are a thing of the past. There are far worse things lurking in the dark corners of his mind.

He takes a couple of moments to check his phone, peek at the speedometer, tap an off rhythm against his thighs.

Of course he’s stalling. Wouldn’t be him otherwise.

Prompto doesn’t look back and instead sucks in a measured breath, attempting to ground himself in the face of this wild and impromptu not-road trip he’s about to embark on.

_We’ll go where the wind takes us_ , Noctis had once said, standing at the edge of the world hours after they had received news of Insomnia’s fall.

Bracing himself against the bike’s handlebars, Prompto goes.

***

The road from Hammerhead to Galdin Quay is a straightforward one, with only the odd turn here and there. Significantly closer than Lestallum, he should be able to make the trip in about three hours. Instead, it takes him five, and he’s not exactly sure as to where in Lucis he is.

In the absence of the Niflheim threat, Lucis seems to have come alive under the collective strength of its citizens. There are towns he’s never heard of, restaurants and shops along its roads boasting the best food and wares, long deserted roads turned into crowded highways.

The sky has opened up and let the rain pour without mercy, making the roads dangerously slippery as he pushes the motorcycle to its limits.

He pulls over at a rest stop to refuel and grab something to drink.

He picks up a map while he’s at it and sits on the shop’s sidewalk, under an awning that sounds about to give way under the collected rain. With a marker, Prompto highlights the backcountry roads to his destination. Civilization may be nice, but he misses the green and browns of the outdoors.

_At least you’re catching on to my good habits._

Prompto snorts. Gladio would never let him live it down.

***

He’s well and truly lost by the time the weather clears up, having grossly overestimated his ability to read roadside maps. He may have marked a river instead of a road, but that’s beside the point.

Prompto drives on, wearily sneaking glances at the gas gauge in front of him. It’s dropping faster now, for some ungodly reason, and he hasn’t the slightest as to where the nearest station would be.

Nothing around him sparks much recognition. He had spotted several anaks grazing a couple of miles back, but that means little to him when he has zero knowledge of the migratory patterns of any sort of animal. He’s only really good at hunting and eating them.

He doesn’t want to think of himself as useless, but it’s a hard thing to avoid in times like this. With no Gladio to effortlessly navigate him through the wilderness, no Ignis to make sure he’s well fed and kept his ass in check, and no Noctis to make him feel like he’s not the only loser in the party – it all tends to fall apart for him.

Hunting alone during the Scourge’s reign had made him faster, stronger, more self-sufficient. Mostly out of anger, sometimes out of spite, during the nights when he succumbed to the voices in his head that whispered lies about Noctis abandoning them all to their fate. He would never do that, he had to remind himself time and again, knew so with the utmost conviction. But then again, he vividly recalls the look in Noctis’ eye as he pushed him off that train.

He clenches his jaw.

It’s all behind him, now. The past is the past. They completed their tasks, faced their destiny, or whatever Ignis had called it. As it stands he’s no one other than Prompto Argentum: mediocre weapons mechanic. The end. Case closed.

To think he once helped his best friend save the world. He and a couple other dozen people; so what made him special, really? He was just a kid with a camera and no real family who thought himself hot shit because he figured it was his job to protect one of the most important people in his life.

And fail to protect him he did. Not a day goes by where Prompto doesn’t feel like all he did was deliver Noctis to the slaughter. Saved the world, sure, but the cost is more than he can handle. It hasn’t gotten easier, he hasn’t learned to cope – all he’s done is get better at ignoring the abysmal emptiness that chews at the edges of his being.

_One person can’t be a substitute for another,_ Cindy had said as Prompto rested his head on her chest, regretting every choice that led them both to that point. In those brief moments after it was all said and done he feared he had somehow coerced her into sleeping with him after years of thinly veiled flirtation and botched attempts at date invitations.

Cindy smacked him up the head at the mere suggestion. She had chosen this, she said as her nails absently scratched the back of his ear, mostly out of curiosity with a hint of loneliness after a particularly rough day.

Prompto felt the night end like the closing of a book.

He blames the vulnerability that sprouted from that experience for the mess of emotions currently wreaking havoc within him. Earning Cindy’s affection had been a goal, something to keep him motivated through the daily grind. Not only was it an underwhelming attempt on his behalf, he feels terrible for even wasting her time.

The bike beneath him pushes harder, and at least he’s moving.

He’s _moving_.

Too fast, he realizes a moment too late, and it’s the only thought he has time to process when he swerves away from the side of the road to keep from crashing into someone.

Prompto loses control and it’s like the world slows for just a couple of agonizing seconds as he’s going through the air, the motorcycle no longer underneath him.

He hits the ground hard, taking the brunt of the impact on his left arm before he’s rolling across the scorching pavement until his body slams against a fence post.

He’s taken his fair share of blows throughout his years of service but never had it felt like slamming headfirst into a bandersnatch at nearly eighty miles per hour.

Beneath him is only grass and gravel as he waits for the world to realign itself. There’s a cold rush spreading across the back of his head, which can’t be good. He can’t feel his arm, but the other one is very much there considering that it burns from shoulder to wrist. He’s pretty sure his leg is mangled, too.

Starring up at the clear blue sky, it takes moments for air to return to his lungs, and when it does, all he can do is cough out a groan.

Prompto shuts his eyes. He can’t remember packing any sort of curatives, in which case he’s well and truly screwed, but something else makes him not want to move.

The person standing beside the road.

He had only caught a brief glimpse before losing control, but he wonders if there had been anyone there at all.

Lifting his head is out of the question. He isn’t sure he can even move his fingers. Mostly he’s just too scared to look around. Whether presence or absence of who he thinks he saw, he can’t say which he’d prefer.

“I swear I’m a lot cooler than this,” Prompto says, although croak would be more accurate. Everything hurts, including his vocal chords.

No reply comes, not that he really expected one.

Of course, it wasn’t her. It’s impossible.

And if it were, why would Lady Lunafreya be standing by the side of a seldom-traveled road in the middle of nowhere?

“Crap,” because giving voice to the pain is better than trying to tough it out. “Why this?”

The sound of footsteps makes his breath catch and he instinctively squeezes his eyes shut, too terrified of what – or who – he might see approaching him. There are certain things he’s willing to accept in the aftermath of ten years of darkness, but others he would much rather chalk up to the imagination.

Surprisingly, something cold and wet pressed against his cheek.

Opening his eyes, Prompto comes face to face with a blurry looking canine persistently pushing against his injured shoulder. “Hey, stop that.”

The dog pushes hard enough to make Prompto sit up out of pure frustration, every inch of him protesting his decision to even be alive at this point. His head spins badly enough to make his stomach clench.

Once the world comes into focus once more, and he’s sure he isn’t going to throw up, Prompto looks down at the dog sitting upright by his feet.

Beady blue eyes stare right at him, surrounded by a halo of gray fur that subtly transitions into pure white. A pair of pointy ears twitch at some sound he doesn’t catch, and a curved tail wags as it scoots closer to him.

Prompto wants to ask how, or even why, but speaking becomes a foreign skill. Instead, he makes a sound similar to that of a dying man.

Maybe he is dead. That would explain a lot of things.

If not dead, then he definitely hit his head really hard, because he would recognize the bandana tied to the dog’s right leg anywhere.

Next, he notices the tote strapped to its back.

The dog trots over and places its forward paws on Prompto’s lap. Hesitantly, he pets the side of its head – _her_ head, because there is no doubt of who she is.

“Pryna,” he offers as a greeting, and Pryna bumps her forehead against his arm. Prompto laughs, confused yet relieved, as he scratches underneath her chin. “I have no idea what in the heck is happening, but girl am I glad to see you.”

He spends several minutes petting her, playfully tugging at her ears and repeatedly asking for some paw to make certain she really is right in front of him and not a worrying side effect of nearly getting himself killed.

She’s unsurprisingly patient with him, allowing Prompto to ground himself for as long as needs. She eventually scratches at the straps of her tote, accompanying the motion with a whine, and Prompto’s quick to unstrap it from around her.

Inside it are curatives he hasn’t seen in ages, along with a note.

_I hope she finds you well._

Time comes to a slow stop, the sounds of the world fading into nothingness as the wind slips through his hair like a familiar and adoring touch. For just a handful of moments, he knows peace. Within the breadth of an instant, warmth overflows from his core and carries towards his fingertips.

All in a span of mere seconds, Prompto shuts his eyes and allows for the feeling to envelop him wholly and completely.

He’s on his feet in an instant, ignoring the agonizing pain that threatens to drag him back to the ground. Prompto frantically looks around, searching and cursing his eyes for their inability to see for miles. There is nothing but rolling hills, a small herd of animals near a rock formation, and a road that keeps on going.

He focuses his attention skyward, towards the blinding sun that causes the beads of sweat to burn once they reach the cuts on his skin. Prompto wants to curse, or pray, he doesn’t really know, but he wants to do _something_.

He wipes unshed tears away with gravelly gloves, a sob rising out of him unwilling.

“Did she send you?” he asks Pryna, knowing the impossibility of it but accepting that some things aren’t bound by the laws of the natural world. “Did _he?_ ”

Prompto collapses onto the ground again, curling in on himself until his breathing finally evens out enough for him to function. Even then, it’s a struggle to find his center. His heart races, his head throbs, but Pryna’s head resting on his shoulder keeps him in one piece.

“Thank you,” Prompto says. He buries his face in her fur, and her only reply is to huff.

***

Walking down the side of the road, Prompto wonders what kind of an alternate reality he’s stepped into. The potions and salves have done enough to get him up on his feet and moving again, albeit with a limp, in hopes that he’ll come across a rest stop or outpost before the sun sets.

Pryna marches beside him, head held high and paws impeccably white despite the dirt she kicks up. Seeing her here and now is surreal in ways Prompto cannot even begin to describe. The last time he laid eyes on her she was but an injured pup, and he a bumbling kid. The last he’d heard of her, well.

“Dying of a broken heart must be the saddest way to go, huh,” he says, not particularly to her but a general observation. “Feels like I’ve died at least three times now.” He sniffs, knowing full well how dramatic that sounds. “Freakin’ sucks.”

The bike is awkward to roll alongside him with his injuries but he sucks it up and keeps going, knowing he’ll be unable to live with himself if he left it on the side of the road somewhere. He’s considered calling Cid a couple of times now, but he continues to stop himself.

Prompto wants to keep going. It feels like he needs to. Just like tugging on a rope and feeling something heavy weigh down on the end, he wants to know what it is or else it will eat him alive.

“You hungry?” She’s a dog, so she doesn’t answer. “I sure am.”

Pryna bounds forward then, climbing on a boulder and standing at attention towards something down the road. Her tail is perfectly still as she makes an aborted _boof_ sound.

“What is it, girl?”

Letting the bike rest on the ground when he hears the sound of an engine growing closer, Prompto jumps out onto the middle of the road, waving his arms for whoever is driving by to stop.

A dark-haired woman in a pick-up truck idles a few feet away from him, and by the look on her face, he must paint a pretty bad picture.

The woman jumps down and walks up to him, wearily looking around. “You okay there, mister?”

Prompto nods then shrugs when he thinks better of it. “I, uh, well.” _Lost complete control of my bike when I saw the not-ghost of a somewhat-friend_ isn’t going to exactly cut it. “It was raining.”

The woman isn’t impressed, but the crease of her brow tells him she’s more than a little concerned and willing to help. “Anywhere you gotta be?” she asks, already making towards the motorcycle.

Prompto trails behind her, but she swats him away when he tries to offer help.

“Anywhere with a gas station,” he says, raising his eyebrows when the woman unlatches a wheel lift from the bed of her truck. Talk about luck. “Or anywhere with modern civilization, really.”

The woman singlehandedly mounts the bike with expert ease, strapping it into place. “There’s a small town a couple miles south from here. It isn’t much, but there’s a place to gas up and catch a snooze if you’re going a long way.” She steals a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “What kind of amateur doesn’t wear a helmet? Or even a damn jacket.”

Prompto scratches at his shoulder, a little embarrassed to admit that neither of those things exactly fit his aesthetic. “Less maneuverable?”

“Let me tell you what. It’ll be less maneuverable if they have to chop your limbs off.”

Prompto blinks, nodding his head a little too fast. “I’ll make sure to wear a jacket next time, ma’am.”

Without another word, the woman climbs into the driver’s seat.

Prompto deliberates and decides to ride in the truck bed in order to avoid any awkward small talk with a woman who looks like she can bench press her own truck. Plus, he figures she might not want a dog traveling in the cab. Even if said dog is ambiguously corporeal.

He props himself up against the wheel well, Pryna jumping in immediately afterward. She settles on his lap as they head southward, towards an unknown town and an uncertain route.

Prompto figures that’s okay.

He’ll go wherever the wind takes him.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Come to think of it, I’ve always kinda been running towards you,” says Prompto, swinging his feet over the edge of the school building. He drums out the beat of a song playing from a car below, for a moment thinking Noctis hadn’t heard him._

_“I am pretty fast,” Noctis says. He opens a bag of potato chips while he leans against the edge and offers some to Prompto, who refuses. “Must be all the practice I get from running away from my problems.”_

_Prompto snorts._

_It’s a Thursday night. They have a sizeable mountain of homework due tomorrow at first period but neither can be bothered to head to their respective homes. Noctis had asked Prompto to join him after school, and who was he to deny him? Hanging out with his best friend was a hell of a lot more fun than sitting alone in his living room._

_“Remind me why you keep running towards me again?”_

_The lights over Insomnia shine so much brighter than the stars at night, making the city that never sleeps a beacon of hope for everyone – including Prompto. It’s noisy, especially at its center with all its malls and clubs and restaurants and people out having the time of their lives, even on a weeknight._

_Noctis presses their sides together. “What’s up?”_

_“Nothing.” That’s a lie, so he tries again. “Okay, maybe not nothing, but nothing worth bringing up while we’re sober.”_

_“We don’t drink.”_

_“Gladio insists that’ll change once we’re seniors.”_

_“Gladio insists on a lot of stupid things,” Noctis says with a shrug. “He’s more of a mom than Ignis.”_

_Prompto grins, doesn’t comment on the fact that Gladio is more a dad than a mom, but he figures saying something along those lines could be grossly misinterpreted. He’s said enough stupid things for one lifetime._

_Instead, he decides to_ do _some more stupid things. Mainly reach over and hook his fingers in the crook of Noctis’ elbow._

_“Sometimes,” he says, since Noctis doesn’t pull away at the touch, “I get these super uncool and weird thoughts that should probably make me want to run away.” His heart quickens in his chest, and he should shut up right now. “But I don’t. It feels better. Being here. With you.”_

_A cold hand wraps around Prompto’s bicep as if Noctis sensed he would pull away._

_Prompto risks a glance, and all he’s met with is a crooked smile that touches the edges of Noctis’ eyes. He offers an awkward shrug after that, clearing is throat, but never letting go of Prompto’s arm._

_“You gotta outrun me,” Noctis offers._

_For the first time in his life Prompto feels the overwhelming urge to kiss someone. His face grows hot at the intrusive thought, but he can’t look away from how pretty Noctis looks when he genuinely smiles. Even at his own expense._

_“So, you’re, uh, you’re not weirded out… by this?”_

_Noctis’ smile morphs into a knowing smirk. “Nah. You’re not the only guy I know who’s crushing on Gladio.”_

***

Life sucks when one’s kind of a little bit in love with their best friend.

He’s seen friendships crash and burn, turn into outright rivalries over misspoken confessions during his high school days. It had been a very real fear after struggling with a couple years’ worth of confusion and doubt.

He had never told Noctis outright. It just wasn’t necessary. Prompto had shared most of his life with him, his secrets and insecurities and aspirations, and Noctis had indulged him until the very end. For the better part of a year, they had spent their time in close quarters, huddled in a car and in tents and in double-bed motel rooms. They were everything they could ever be to each other in the hand the Astrals dealt them.

Not that their friendship was average. Nothing about them was. The two of them, plus Ignis and Gladio, were something Prompto can’t quite name. The word friendship begins to pale the more he thinks about the lives they lived while on the road.

“You think he knows I miss him?” Prompto asks Pryna, who rests her head on his chest.

Pryna’s ear twitches when Prompto scratches it.

The inside of the caravan is dark, smelling of sea salt and rust. The bed is uncomfortable, as they always have been, but more so now that the coils do nothing but dig into his bruised back.

He would lay on his side, but he doesn’t want to disturb the company.

“Like, how does any of this work?” he says, scratching at his forehead with a frown. “He can send notes via dog but he can’t send me a damn text message? This is five levels of crap.”

Granted, Prompto’s perfectly alive and corporeal and he hasn’t texted any of his friends in years. But that’s not the point.

“Was that message even from Noct?” It was Luna who he had sworn he saw by the road. Either person is unlikely due to obvious reasons. Like death, for example.

But he recalls Ignis delivering the news in Altissia as well, of how Luna’s companion had died alongside her owner due to a broken heart. And Pryna’s currently curled up right beside him.

If coming back to life is going to become a trend, it better not be exclusive to animals.

“This is stupid. Everything is stupid. Except you, baby girl.”

Pryna huffs, appreciating the addendum.

It’s when his stomach rumbles that she sits up with a big toothy yawn, moving to curl up at the foot of the bed. Prompto takes a few moments before he too gets up, and eventually wanders into the bathroom to make himself look human.

Galdin Quay is, unsurprisingly, restored to its former glory.

Walking out onto its sandy beach packed with tourists, its searing heat and overwhelming brightness – it sucks.

Everything sucks.

Maybe he’s more than a little cranky lately, what with everything aching and his head an outright mess of crap he can’t sort out for the life of him.

It feels like everyone is staring as he makes his way across the endless boardwalk. He waves at the handful of greeters, their awful colored shirts the same ugly shade they were forever ago.

Romantic, yes. Pricy, hell yes. It all falls incredibly flat now, even with their upgraded screens and fancy gadgets Prompto keeps seeing along the tables and walls. Maybe he’s getting old.

Maybe romance is dead.

The mere idea appalls him.

Cindy was wrong. This is a terrible idea.

Slipping onto a bar stool, Prompto takes and scours through the menu for something he will be able to afford on limited gil. Everything is different, but he at least recognizes the components listed under each dish.

“If there’s anything you’re wondering about, feel free to ask away.”

Prompto looks up. It takes a couple of seconds to recognize the face in front of him.

Dark blonde hair done up in a pristine bun, red chef’s uniform. He can’t remember her name but she hasn’t changed much over the years. He’s frankly surprised she’s still working the place.

Prompto isn’t surprised at the lack of recognition from her. “Thanks! I’ll just… go through this.”

The lady – _Coctura!_ – laughs. “Take your time, mister.”

He turns back to the menu as she returns to her grill.

Prompto wonders if Dino is still around.

There’s a live band playing out on the deck, a score of classy jazz that mostly sounds like elevator music to his ears.

He decides on steak. Simple and to the point, cannot possibly go wrong with that choice. Medium rare, he thinks, with a glass of whatever wine goes along with this kind of stuff. Fancier than just ordering a soda. And surprisingly cheaper than any other fare involving fresh seafood.

Prompto lowers the menu just as Coctura places a plate down in front of him. He stares down at it, blinking in confusion for a brief second before cracking a smile.

“Hard to forget that hair,” she says, plucking out silverware from a wooden drawer and presenting it to him on a satin napkin. “How nice of you to drop by.”

“Missed the food,” he says. The plate in front of him contains a slice of very fluffy looking cake, some sort of cream, and an assortment of berries.

“This one’s on the house.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“Although, by this point, you guys’ meals are permanently on the house. What with everything you did. Legendary hunters, saviors of Lucis, so on.”

Prompto doesn’t look up from the plate, feeling his face grow warm. “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

“How’s Hammerhead?”

“It’s great,” he stops. “Hammerhead?”

“Isn’t that your headquarters?” She carries on the conversation while effortlessly flipping fish fillets over the fire. The flames burn high, but it doesn’t deter her from sprinkling seasoning. “That’s what Dino mentioned.”

Prompto nods. “Yup. Home sweet home.”

Coctura busies herself with other patrons and later returns with a glass and a bottle of wine. She serves him a drink and takes his order, getting to it almost immediately.

“I know it’s none of my business,” she says, only pausing to roll her eyes, “I blame this entirely on Dino, I’ll have you know. Bad customer service, asking more than the basics. But I’m curious.” Her fingers move deftly as she talks, slicing onions and carrots in quick succession. “Why not the Crown City?”

“Why not the Crown City what?”

“I find it strange. Not returning home after you’ve sacrificed so much to reclaim it.”

Prompto takes a drink from his glass, winces as it burns on the way down. _Nothing there to call home,_ he thinks. “And be constantly hailed for being a hero? I’ll pass. Too old for that kinda stuff,” he says instead, trying for nonchalant and brutally failing, judging by the way she immediately drops the subject.

“Alright. How about some juicy gossip, then?” she says, preparing a plate with enough ease to make him question her humanity. Dare he say she might give Ignis a run for his money.

“What have you got?”

She slips his order to him, even though he’s already eaten his dessert without realizing it. “First, eat up. You look famished.”

***

Pryna is waiting for him by the waterfront when he returns with his leftovers for her. He intends to sit and watch the sunset, feeling lighter now that he’s eaten and had a decent conversation revolving around things other than the causes of his sleepless nights.

Instead, he’s barked at by Pryna, who looks behind her to make sure he’s following.

“What is it?”

She leads him across the beach, past the caravan and the pier, across the white sand that gives way with every step he takes. He steers clear of the rubyshears closer to the water, doubting his ability to kill anything at the moment.

Pryna begins to sniff around a rock formation, then lays down on the grassy area surrounding it.

Prompto looks around, completely lost as to what just happened.

He scratches at his chin. “Alrighty then.”

She boofs at him as he turns to head back towards the caravan.

Groaning, he turns back towards her, extending his arms in exasperation. “I know,” he says, gesturing at the rock. “I know what it is.”

Pryna huffs then makes her way up to the top.

Prompto clenches his fists, then unclenches them, opting to cross his arms over his chest as if it were cold out. He doesn’t understand anything anymore, not with Pryna apparently calling the shots now.

“Okay. Okay, _fine_.”

He begrudgingly stomps his way up to the dead haven, the lack of blue light stinging like a thorn in his side.

It’s the first campsite they ever crashed at after leaving for Altissia, and he remembers how awkward it had been sharing such a tiny tent with three other guys. One of them Gladio sized. He had slept stiffly, hyperaware of not touching anyone until Noct threw a leg over him, and Gladio’s armpit was shoved in his face.

Ignis had slept on the outside of the pile, but that soon changed when he complained of nearly suffocating between Gladio and the tent.

It took them a couple of nights of reshuffling, elbowing, and kneeing each other until they settled into an order that worked for all of them.

Prompto sits by the dormant fire pit, crossed legged and tired.

He can almost hear Ignis fussing over the portable stove about to run out of gas, demanding Noctis get the tank refilled by the petrol station. By the shoreline, he can almost see Gladio doing his late night run before dinner.

Lying back, Prompto stays until the stars come out.

Even the rocky surface is more comfortable than the shitty bed in the caravan.

He shuts his eyes just for a moment, lingering in the warm feelings he once felt in the company of his friends. It’s a wonder to think how much he has changed. How his thoughts had been nothing but the _now_ , as opposed to his thoughts being nothing but the _then_. They really did make him a better person.

He wishes he could still be that person.

Behind his eyelids, he can almost swear he sees the faint blue glow of the Oracle’s protection.


	5. Chapter 5

Cindy tells him to take it slow.

Prompto tells her that _she_ needs to take it slow, pauses, and then apologizes despite delivering the retort jokingly.

But her advice is easier received than acted on. Every stop makes him want to get out as quickly as possible. If he could drive in endless circles all day, he would. Perpetual motion would be an ideal thing.

Galdin Quay hosts him for the better part of a week. He spends his days talking shop with the weapons vendor by the caravan he calls his hotel.

Pretty neat guy, if a little too casual about his wares to sell Prompto on how well he knows his stuff. Rookie or veteran, he can’t tell. The vibe he gets mostly details how tired the guy is of sitting there day in and day out.

“Who thinks about killing nasties while on vacation?” he says.

Prompto wants to agree, but instead, he gets distracted by other news.

“The Amicitias?” Prompto asks one night while lounging on the pier.

“What about them?”

“You’re a hunter. Any news from the grapevine?”

The man shrugs. “Iris Amicitia nearly got us all out of a job. Fewer targets, less bounty. But everyone who’s someone and has enough gil for it hires her right off the bat. Jokes on ‘em, ‘cause woman will downright hunt for free if the pests are too out of control.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You know her?”

Prompto nods. “Mostly I know her brother.”

“Guy’s a dick.”

“You just gotta get to know him. Then you’ll see he’s an even bigger dick,” he says with a grin that goes unrequited. Gladio’s a pretty tough swallow for anyone who doesn’t know him well enough. Only sometimes, though, when he’s not flashing his pearly whites and seducing half the room with a well-timed wink.

Prompto’s decided that he’s hitting the road again once his bike rolls out from the nearby shop in one piece. Or two. He may have spent a considerable amount of gil on an upgrade he really hopes Cindy won’t mind too much.

“You take care now,” Coctura says, throwing a can of soda his way. “Give us a call if you ever run into trouble.”

Prompto salutes her. “You got it. Say hi to Dino for me.”

She waves in return, her job catching her attention as she turns away from him. “Don’t be strangers now, you hear?”

The sun is shining overhead but the day is considerably cooler than when he first got here. Enough so to actually wear sleeves.

With his stuff packed and bike waiting for him in the parking lot, Prompto whistles for Pryna to join him. She barks and jumps right into the newly installed sidecar.

“Upholstered with the best leather in town,” he tells her. “I call bull, but hey, bet you’re nice and comfy.”

Pryna stares up at him, giving her tail a good wag.

“Well then, let’s blow this joint.”

***

The day treats them well, with clear skies and the temperature comfortable enough to push past three hours of driving along the new highways of south Lucis.

The roads are lined with blurs of color, advertisements, and storefronts both new and old. There are fewer cars, a tram system, and far more people sightseeing at leisure.

Driving through, Prompto gets a solid amount of pretty chill vibes.

He stops for lunch and a quick bathroom break, letting Pryna stretch her legs after sitting still for so long.

The kebabs here, wherever here is, are fantastic.

“I was thinking,” Prompto says, slipping onto the bench, “Ravatogh.” He holds up a map of tourist attractions for Pryna to see, and points at the geyser. The same geyser he’s seen a dozen times before and is nowhere as exciting as the brochure makes it sound. “Heard they opened up a couple things last year. Like mountain climbing.” Which he’s also already done.

If a dog could judge Pryna would have taken first prize for best in show. He can almost swear she’s rolling her eyes at him.

“Don’t give me that look. The whole point is to visit places we all drove through. I hate Ravatogh, too weary and dark and it stinks like sulfur all the time. _But_ , at least the food’s pretty damn good.”

He folds up the brochure and shoves it in his jacket pocket before taking another bite of his kebab.

Pryna huffs.

“No,” he says, knowing full well what she’s thinking. Or maybe he’s thinking too much into what a dog is thinking. Either way, it’s a bad idea. “Call me salty, but we ain’t going.”

Before driving out of Galdin Quay he had mentioned making a stop at Cape Caem. Crashing at the old house, visiting the lighthouse, checking on the old garden. It had sounded like a great idea until he turned the motorcycle towards it.

In the beginning, Galdin Quay had been a bad time. Every corner of the place reminded him of something nice but painful, and it had taken him days before he was able to crack a genuine smile. Having to repeat it all again at Cape Caem sounded exhausting.

“I doubt they’re there, anyway.” He isn’t sure how he’d feel if he made the trip only to come out empty handed, no Gladio hiking along the cliffs by the seashore.

Pryna puts a paw on the table, as if telling him to _wait_ , before jumping down and heading off somewhere Prompto can’t see.

Dog has better communication skills than a lot of people he’s met.

He pulls out his phone to see that he has no service. Unsurprising given that they’re in the middle of nowhere still, even if there’s a good chunk of people walking along the dirt roads that cut through.

Prompto peruses his very limited contact list, finger lingering over Ignis’ name before closing out of the window and slipping it back into his jeans. No good. He doesn’t even know what he would say after being AWOL for five years.

Maybe tomorrow.

Yeah. Tomorrow would work.

Pryna returns, strangely enough, with a brochure hanging from her mouth.

Prompto takes it and laughs. “You can’t be serious.” He flips through it, grimacing at the blatant lies jumping out at him in neon green letters over a black backdrop.

_Visit the Vesperpool! A delightful experience doused in the cultures of old._

If by _cultures of old_ it means dingy ruins in a swamp, then sure. That sounds about right.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate bugs? The answer is a lot.” He puts down the brochure then stares at Pryna accusingly. “I still don’t know whether or not you have any idea of what I’m saying. We don’t even speak the same language.”

Pryna scoots forward, sitting with her front legs in the air and placing her right paw over Prompto’s knee. He can almost swear she winks at him, and he has to shake his head to refocus.

“Okay… _that_ was freaky.”

Were he forced to choose between Ravatogh and the Vesperpool, he’d choose neither. If anything, at least the Vesperpool has a functioning chocobo rental… and a place to swim with them. Which sounds like the time of his life. Better than smelling sulfur. But is it worth the bugs?

Decisions, decisions.

“You drive a hard bargain.” It’s a little past noon, but the Vesperpool is a long ways away. “Guess we can crash here, head out early tomorrow.”

Pryna’s boof sounds awfully smug.

***

They reach the midway point by three in the afternoon. Parched and sore, Prompto pulls over at a stop that looks vaguely familiar, but the location is all wrong. He had gone in a far more western direction, putting him a solid hour or two away from his current destination.

He really sucks at reading maps.

“Could’ve sworn I had it right this time,” he says, parking off to the side of a mini-mart. He reads the map again, carefully tracing the route he’s taken and, yup, he shouldn’t be thirty minutes out at this point.

Prompto scratches his head, then goes through it again. He sighs.

“Might as well stretch our legs since we’re here.”

Pryna’s way ahead of him, bouncing out of the sidecar and making her way down the road. Prompto watches her before deciding that standing in the middle of the road to watch for any oncoming cars isn’t a great idea.

“Hey! Sidewalk!” he calls out to her, but Pryna plants it smack in the middle and scratches behind her ear.

Prompto gapes, wondering if the dog got switched out on the way here somehow. Otherworldly or not, Pryna has a tendency to be a lot smarter than the average canine, leading him places, stopping him from doing stupid shit.

It’d be no surprise if she brought him here on purpose.

He waves his hands at her, attempting to shoo her out of harm’s way. “Aw, come on. I don’t need anyone dying on me.” He sniffs. “Again.”

Pryna yawns, all too corporeal, before she decides to cut him some slack. His relief is short-lived when she runs off further down the road and takes a sharp left, down a set of stairs, and out into the wilderness.

Prompto’s stomach rumbles. Whether it’s hunger or anxiety, he can’t really tell.

It takes him a moment of deliberation before he decides to chase after her, a ludicrous voice telling him that Lunafreya would never forgive him if something happened to her dog. Unnecessary, given that he wouldn’t forgive himself, first and foremost.

“Guess I’ll eat sometime _next_ week. This is fine. This is all fine.”

Recognition slowly sets in the moment he begins his descent.

The outpost’s name is long forgotten to him, but he recalls the bit of wetland alongside the river. It’s rockier than it was back then, less vegetation, but the musty smell still lingers in the air.

At the bottom, Prompto listens for it.

The roaring rush of a waterfall just a small hike to the north.

He pushes through the thicket of thorny bushes, carefully sidesteps the beasties minding their own along the shore, and haphazardly makes his way through treacherous boulders that block off the path to the pool he knows is on the other side.

He slips on a patch of moss but quickly regains his footing, avoiding a dive into the crystalline water a few feet below him.

“Just like I remember you,” Prompto says, walking closer to the waterfall until the mist makes his hair slump over his head. For once, he can’t bring himself to care.

Rather than more of the same depressing deluge he’s come to expect from the places he’s seen, he’s met with a memory that makes the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

Ah, yes. This place.

Glacial hellscape behind the waterfall dutifully ignored, Prompto recalls a far more terrifying ordeal.

***

“Dare me.”

“I’m not daring you.”

“Come on, Igster, dare me!”

“You’re going to do it even if I don’t dare you.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Prompto looks over to Noctis when Ignis refuses to give. “Bet you it’s freezing.”

Noctis scoffs, foot firmly set into a groove in the rock to keep him from falling in in the case of eager hands driven by devilish intent. “You go first.”

“Nuh-uh. What if there’s sharks?”

“It’s a river,” Gladio says, arms crossed and looking like he’s seriously considering taking a dive as well. “Nothing living in there but fish. Not even big enough to eat.”

The four of them linger at the top of a cliff, far enough away from the waterfall to keep from getting soaked. The day is infernally hot, and they’ve been in the car for a solid five hours with only the occasional stop sprinkled here and there.

Sure, cannonballing into a refreshing pool sounds good in theory, but they’re all a little anxious about what lurks behind the curtain of water that turns this hidden paradise into an oasis.

Not to mention they’re right under the highway. A seldom traveled strip of highway, but they’re exposed nonetheless.

“Well, who’s going first?” Ignis asks, pushing up his glasses. He, too, looks ready to give under the pressure of the inviting water.

“Alright, fine. Prom—” Before Noctis can even finish the sentence, Prompto has chucked himself off the rock, clothes and all.

“Last one in is a rotten egg!”

The rush of adrenaline is different from the usual fight or flight instinct that kicks in every given day. There are no immediate alarm bells going off in his head, no hurry to reach for his guns. It’s an unadulterated thrill as he plunges into the freezing water, breath squeezed out of his lungs in the best way possible.

He wonders if this is what Noctis feels every time he warps.

His feet touch the bottom of the pool and he kicks off, breaking the surface. Maybe he should have at least taken off his shoes.

“It’s fucking freezing!” he shouts up at them, spluttering and whipping the hair out of his eyes. The statement cracks into a laugh he can’t control, jaw chattering as his body grows accustomed to the temperature.

A blur and a splash later, Gladio’s head pops out of the water. “You may think you looked badass on the way down,” he says, grabbing Prompto by the shoulders and pushing him under the water, “but really you looked like a frazzled chocobo.”

Prompto heaves for air when he resurfaces, hastily swimming away from him. He’s not the best swimmer out of all of them, but at least he didn’t fail PE back in high school, like a certain prince who hasn’t moved from his spot.

“At least I didn’t empty out the river when I hit the water,” Prompto shoots back, then swims a little faster when Gladio comes for him.

Turns out they were driving around with said shark all along.

Up above, Noctis and Ignis seem to be having a full-fledged conversation that involves a lot of a head-shaking and temple rubbing.

“Ten gil he’s talking about how he’d rather tan,” Gladio says, only now realizing his mistake at not having removed his jacket before he jumped.

“Nah. He’ll just… burn.”

“To a crisp.”

“A very red crisp.”

Gladio grins. “Hey, Noct!” The two of them look down at him. “Finally taking your shirt off, huh?”

There’s a brief moment in which Noctis just stares, puffs out his chest and, to everyone’s surprise, aggressively shrugs off his jacket. They all watch, dumbfounded, as he plops onto the ground and jerks off his boots and socks. Then, his pants, leaving only a pair of gray boxers and his black shirt on.

“Did you nerds even realize there’s nowhere to dry our clothes?” he calls down as if the statement is enough to guarantee him victory.

“It’s not like these are our only wardrobe choices,” Ignis remarks, but it goes ignored as Noctis finally dives off the top of the cliff.

Prompto swims to where he collides, rather roughly, with the water. Gladio is there too when Noctis’ head pops out, giving them the best glare he can muster through a curtain of black hair. “I can swim,” he says defensively.

They give him space, mostly to tease Ignis about being a rotten egg. Ignis takes serious offense judging by the way he removes his glasses and sets them over the pile of Noctis’ folded clothes. The three of them watch as he removes his clothing until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

Always a funny view, that. By funny Prompto means impressive. Gladio may be a hulking piece of a guy, as tall as he is wide, but Ignis is all slender strength that can be very easily missed under his fatigues. Not to mention his legs. Prompto sorely wishes he had worked out more before officially joining the Crownsguard.

The three of them give Ignis a round of applause when he dives off with every ounce of grace he exudes in battle.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t take your clothes off,” Ignis says, running fingers through his hair to comb it out of his face.

Gladio whistles. “If you want us naked, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Yeah, Specs. No need to be so demanding all the time,” Noctis adds, managing to stay afloat.

Ignis, unbeknownst to any of them, proves to be part astral as he sends a colossal wave of water at them using only an arm. “Fine then,” he says amidst the coughs and fits of laughter, “you can make yourselves soup the moment you can’t stop sneezing. See how well that will taste.”

It’s the early afternoon when their rowdiness begins to wane, giving way to a mellower atmosphere. The thunderous waterfall becomes background music as it continues to meet the pool below, crashing over polished rocks and mossy banks.

The sky above is a crystalline blue, not a cloud in sight. It’s hot, but the water contrasts it with a pleasant coolness that has Noctis napping on the shore, the heels of his feet disturbing the calmly flowing surface.

Prompto has lost track of how long he’s been sitting by him, scrolling through the photos on his phone. He’s swapped his camera for this, only while they hang out by the water.

Storage is running low, so he takes the time to delete unused apps for the sake of even more photos – mostly of Gladio and Ignis and the way they’re kind of just floating in the water, playfully pushing and pulling at each other.

There are some things he doesn’t even want a film developer to see.

Noctis makes a sound, swatting at Prompto’s side before his eyes readjust to the lighting now that he’s awake. “S’there anything left in the bag? M’ thirsty.”

Prompto puts his phone down to rummage through Gladio’s pack. “Ebony, if you want Iggy to murder you. Water, soda, uh… some jerky, if you’re hungry too.” Regardless of sounding off, Prompto passes him the soda can.

“You’re blocking the sun,” Noctis says, balancing the can on his forehead rather than opening it.

“It’s cold in the shadowy areas.” And that is definitely not a whine. “I don’t know how those two are handling it.”

“They’re probably leeching off each other’s body heat.”

Prompto looks to where Gladio and Ignis are conversing. There looks to be a respectable distance between them, but Prompto can’t see what’s happening beneath the surface. “You think?”

“Scoot closer.” Prompto does so until his hip and the side of his leg are pressed against Noctis’ flank. Noctis, however, flinches away. “Damn. Why are you so freezing? You’re practically soaking up the sun.”

“Heh, sorry ‘bout that. You know how my fingers are always cold? Kinda the same for the rest of me.”

A finger pokes Prompto’s back, making him squirm when it begins to trace random lines. “Specs mentioned it may be bad circulation,” Noctis says, adding yet another finger and walking them along the planes of Prompto’s exposed skin. “You’re covered in freckles.”

The non-sequitur throws Prompto for a spin. His cheeks grow warm, but he laughs it off. “Literally all over.”

“Literally? All over?”

“All. Over.”

“Can I see?” Noctis says, interest piqued as he sits up and reaches for the band of Prompto’s boxers, which in turn has Prompto gracelessly flopping away from him in a fit of hysterical giggles.

“No!”

“As if I’ve never seen you naked before.”

“You weren’t intentionally staring at my ass those times!”

“Says who?”

It’s another verbal blow that has Prompto second-guessing if he’s even awake at this point, and it’s enough for Noctis to gain the upper hand.

Flipped onto his back, Prompto is left blinking dumbly as Noctis straddles his waist, fingers at the ready to deliver a devastating blow of tickles. Instead, Noctis grins down at him, hair hiding most of his face as sunlight crowns him with a halo. He’s poised to pounce for what he wants, and that’s a boxer-less Prompto, but he refrains from moving. “You’re gonna die if you don’t breathe.”

Prompto wishes he could. Instead, he’s struck speechless by how ethereally beautiful Noctis looks, looming over him like… something poetic he can’t think of. But he’s stunning and amazing and he makes Prompto’s chest hurt with feelings he can’t express.

“It’s a good look on you,” says Noctis. “Your face is as red as the flowers your head is squishing.”

Prompto manages to sputter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Noctis pinches Prompto’s nose before getting off him. “You’re cute,” is all he says, before heading back into the water.

Refusing to move, Prompto asks the Six why he’s been given such an unfair lot in this lifetime.

Grass tickles his nose and he sneezes. Apparently, he wasn’t lying about the flowers.

“You’re on my pack,” Gladio says, coming into Prompto’s line of sight and blocking out the sun.

Prompto blinks, tries to make out exactly what it is he’s staring up at and slaps his hands over his eyes. “That was closer to your dick than I ever needed to be. Thanks, man.”

***

Even the ketchup isn’t enough to mask the saltiness of the fries he pops in his mouth, but it’s food. Cheap food. Gil is running dangerously low after his frivolous spending and he’s considering taking on a hunt or two if only to put a roof over his head and a meal in his stomach until he reaches whatever destination he’s set on.

Prompto swings his feet to the music coming from his earbuds as he sits by the river.

He’s been here three days. Not by choice, but by lack of companion.

Pryna had run off late on the first day, and after the initial wave of panic, he had come to terms that Pryna is Pryna. She’ll come back, and she’ll do so safe and sound. He hasn’t the slightest of why he’s so sure about this, but he is.

Prompto takes the time to sit back and relax, basking in the good times this place brought him back in the day.

Yesterday he got brave and peeked behind the curtain of water, biting back the encroaching fear that curled in the base of his throat. Surprisingly, he came across nothing but a solid rock wall. No sign of there ever being anything there. No endless dungeon crawling with spiders and snake-women.

That’s mostly the reason why he can block it all out and zone out to the music playing on his phone.

He eats the fries before they get soggy, setting the plate aside when he’s done.

It was on that day, the day of their impromptu skinny dipping session, that Prompto realized their friendship was different. He didn’t have a base to compare it to, these three being the only real friends he’s ever had, but he’d watched enough television to see how guys usually acted around other guys.

While Gladio and Ignis tended to gravitate toward each other, there was something in the way they would all huddle around a fire without inhibitions. The number of times Prompto fell asleep on Gladio’s lap, or the way Ignis would hold his hand in too-crowded places, were telling signs of something Prompto hadn’t even considered.

Not brothers, not exactly friends, but more. But not exactly more. It had confused the living daylights out of him, but there came a point when he decided labels didn’t matter. They were nobodies trudging through the invaded lands of Lucis. Nameless hunters, four boys with a destination and a subdued urge to get there.

Even that hodgepodge of emotions had been easier to deal with than this. At the end of the day, when they would return to their tent or their motel room, they were all there, together.

Prompto licks ketchup and salt from his fingers.

Maybe he ought to call them. Or at least text. Be the bigger man and initiate the conversation none of them want to have, but have to. Five years is long enough.

Wiping his fingers on his pants, he reaches for his phone only to be interrupted by a ball of white bobbing her way towards him.

“There you are!” He gets on his knees as she nearly jumps into his arms, excitedly spinning around and making an assortment of sounds that Prompto guesses translate to her being happy to see him. “How you doing, girl?”

Pryna answers by shoving her snout against his hand. There’s a leather strap hanging from between her teeth, and attached to it is his old camera.

He takes it from her, perplexed by the fact that he’s holding this particular one in his hands again.

He had packed his newer one, despite knowing he wouldn’t use it, but this one had been a gift from Noctis before they first left on their trip. Prompto had misplaced it – if intentional misplacement is a thing – when he had walked away from the Citadel a second time, this time sans prince.

That last roll of film had still been in it. Just one picture, and it had been a request from Noctis before they turned in for the night. “One last selfie, for the road,” he had said, mentioning how they needed some memories of their terrible facial hair.

Prompto hadn’t had the heart to develop it. Not after the way they had found Noctis on his throne. At that moment, Prompto felt like they never deserved to be happy again. He feared he wouldn’t be able to feel anything like happiness from there forward.

“Where’d you get this?” He waves the camera at Pryna, who has walked on over to the side of the river to drink.

The film is still in place when he opens the back compartment, unstained and unharmed. It may be overexposed after years of darkness suddenly become light, especially without knowing where it’s been all this time.

Hanging the strap around his neck, he grabs his takeout container and heads up to the road. “Only one way to find out,” he says, waiting for Pryna to catch up with him.

Most outposts have a photo printing booth in their souvenir shops, this one should be no exception. Granted, it only works for digital chips and phone cameras, and Prompto smacks his head against the screen in exasperation.

Maybe it’s for the best. Gods know his life’s already a mess. He’s stopped taking photos for a reason, and he fears what seeing that photo specifically might make him do.

“Can I help you, sir?” a young woman asks, holding up her hands as if that would be enough to make him stop trying to break either his head or the machine. “It tends to freeze on occasion, but I can help you near the checkout counter.”

“No. No, it’s fine. It’s…” He waves the camera in front of her and offers her an uncertain smile. “Old camera. Don’t think there’s anything that can be done.”

“May I?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

The young woman inspects the equipment, opening the back compartment the same way he had. “35mm. I haven’t seen one of these in years.” She walks across the store, carefully sidestepping the few patrons checking out the snow globes on the shelves. “I think… I may have just the thing for this sweet thing.”

Prompto follows her, standing on the other side of the counter as he watches her fiddle with it.

“Self-wind?”

“Yup.”

“Any idea how many pictures are left?” He shrugs. “No matter. Mind if I…?” She holds the camera up, and before Prompto can react she’s snapping a picture of him. “There we go! I can hear her thinking. These darlings were _it_ back in the day.”

He watches her move swiftly, plucking out the smooth roll of film and inserting it into a machine he has never seen before. She closes the lid, hits a handful of buttons on the screen, and lets it roll.

“New cameras give you way better quality. Real fancy stuff, with built-in filters and all that jazz,” she says, giving Prompto back his camera with a hint of reverence. “Yet, they all feel a little blander, don’t you think? Back then you had to worry about the lighting and the angle. It was practically art. Now it’s all… click and drag to readjust the whole entire shot.”

“I think nice pictures should be accessible to everyone. Not just professionals,” Prompto says, hanging it around his neck again.

“Don’t get me wrong, mister, I agree.” She waves her phone at him. “Best lens to date. You can bet I take the worst selfies on it. Anyhoo, the film will take about an hour to develop, so I hope you don’t have any plans.”

“Nope,” Prompto says with a thumbs up, making a hasty retreat when the woman beings twirling her hair in a way that’s too obvious for even him to miss. “I’ll, uh, come back later. Bye.”

He stumbles out into the open air, a little put off but able to deal with it. His fingers tingle with the need to do something, the tell-tale signs of anxiety kicking in, slowly creeping around his edges, but he tries his hardest to ignore it.

The film must be ruined. It has to be after so many years.

If it’s not, then it’s going to be a hell of a story he’s going to completely refuse to tell as he pays for a job well done.

Suddenly feeling extremely tired, Prompto drops onto one of the benches outside the shop with a groan.

With Pryna here, they can finally head out to the Vesperpool and figure out what’s so urgent to her there. Hopefully it’s nothing _too_ urgent, given their detour.

And where the hell did she even find that camera?

Prompto turns his attention skyward, narrowing his eyes at the blue nothingness above. Divine intervention may be a thing that’s continuously smacked him across the face for years, but he’s not exactly ready to accept it back into his life just yet.

He plucks out his phone and stares at the screen for a long moment, unsure of what to do. He goes through his rounds of pulling up his contact list and hovering his thumb over Gladio’s name, and then Ignis’, before closing it. “Dammit.”

A handful of tables down two men are having an argument that’s gathering attention from the people around. One of them refuses to sit, raising his voice to near shouting levels, while the other urges him to keep it down.

“I’m not blind, kid, I know what I saw.”

“You were dirt wasted is what.”

“Wasted or not, this kind of thing… you don’t forget it. You even seen one? Ever come face to face with one of those slimy fuckers, huh? Huh?!”

“Pops, you need to sit down.”

“I won’t sit down. Everyone is sitting down like everyone done forgot the hell we put up with for ten years. I ain’t putting up with it again, kid, you mark my damn words. Them things start popping up again and there be no stopping them this time!”

Prompto is openly staring at the two men, a cold drip of sweat crawling down his spine.

A server quickly interrupts, asking the men to leave before any of the other patrons become too upset by their scene. Their low buzz of conversations has fallen silent now, listening in on the exchange.

“You’re crazy, old man.”

“A drunk, yeah, but I ain’t crazy. I know what I saw, and they’re coming. They’re back. What’chu gonna do then, huh? Remember me is what. That’s what y’all do.”

The man is escorted off the property but Prompto is close behind, hand instinctively hovering over his hip. He’s more wired than he’s been in years, that same dread gripping tight and refusing to let go in the face of the adversity that terrified him.

“Wait, sir, hold on,” he calls out, jogging to catch up to the man who’s been unceremoniously left by the side of the road. “Wait!”

The man is unsteady on his feet, clearly drunk off his wits, but there’s enough coherent thought in him to look Prompto over and nod in acceptance. “You a hunter. Them scars. You seen the field.”

“I need you to tell me what it is you saw,” Prompto says, casting his already poor social skills to the wind. “What you were talking about. And where. Where’d you see it?”

The man hobbles closer, narrowing his eyes at the camera still around Prompto’s neck. “Longwythe,” he says, taking a step back and agitatedly waving at the tables he was removed from. “Off near the mountain.”

“Longwythe. Okay. But—but can you tell me what you saw?”

The man squeezes his eye shut, and Prompto can see the terror that etches itself along the lines of his old face.

“Big. Big baddie. Chains for miles. Can’t remember much, it was night. But it were glowing. Glowing that sickly purple-ish black. And its stench were bad enough to make me lose my lunch.”

Prompto doesn’t waste a second pulling out his phone and typing a simple text message: _daemons in longwythe_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An accurate description of this chapter: "everything happens so much". 
> 
> Warning for violence and pretty explicit descriptions of wounds.

_“Longwythe?”_

“That’s what he said. On my way over as we speak.”

Talcott says something to someone on the other line, but the road is too loud for Prompto to hear what it is. It’s late afternoon and odds are he won’t make it before nightfall, or even before sunrise if he keeps making frequent stops for Pryna.

_“I don’t think you should go by this alone,”_ Talcott says. _“If he’s right, it could be dangerous.”_

“Come on. It’s hardly my first rodeo.”

_“But it’s been years,”_ he tries to reason. _“What if it isn’t a daemon? What if it’s something you need more firepower to take down?”_

Prompto adjusts his mirrors, mourning his hair as rain continues to mercilessly drench him. “Tell you what. I get to Longwythe and ask around, see what I can dig up. Eyewitnesses and whatnot. I’ll report back before I do anything too stupid.”

Talcott is quiet for a long moment. _“I’d feel better if you take backup with you.”_

“My skills may be rusty, but I still got ‘em!”

_“It’s not your skills I'm worried about. Have you reached out to any of the guys? Maybe they’re in the area if they’ve heard anything.”_

Prompto shakes his head, then remembers Talcott can’t see him. “Not yet.”

_“I’ll call up Iris, see what she knows. If anyone has any information, it’s Hunter HQ.”_

“Keep me posted, kiddo.”

_“Will do. Over and out.”_

Ending the call over his earpiece, Prompto sucks in a deep breathe. He looks down at Pryna who licks the side of her mouth to catch the rainwater that slicks her snout. “Ready or not.”

***

Longwythe is as barren as he remembers it. Livelier, with new shops and houses lining the backroads, but breathing is enough to fill one’s lungs with its trademark dust. Arid climate makes for freezing nights, and freezing nights makes for empty streets.

There are floodlights over the outpost, illuminating a good five-mile radius.

That’s as bad a sign as he’s getting.

He parks the bike by the gas pump and cuts the engine, kicking down the stand as Pryna jumps out and heads off somewhere he can’t see. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he makes for the Crow’s Nest – now under new management – and orders himself a drink.

It’s nearly three in the morning and the diner is empty with the exception of the old man manning the counter, polishing plates with a rag that’s seen better days. “What can I get you, son?”

Prompto slips onto a bar stool, wearily sneaking glances around him. The streets are well lit, even through the tinted windows of the diner. Nothing’s getting the jump on him here.

“Coldest thing you have,” Prompto says, reaching for a menu despite knowing he won’t be ordering anything.

“You look like you could use a meal.”

Prompto shrugs to accompany the forced smile but otherwise doesn’t answer.

He drums his fingers against the countertop, discreetly looking around for newspapers or other sources that may fill him in on whatever is happening out here. He sees nothing and almost startles right off the stool when the man slams a bottle in front of him.

“Take it and go,” he says, turning his back to Prompto. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

Prompto gapes at the sudden shift in attitude. “My kind?”

“Everything about you says hunter.”

He gathers himself quickly enough when he realizes that it isn’t a personal jab, but rather an overarching one.

“I take it I’m not the first to pass by here.”

The man scowls at him, making the wrinkles on his face appear deeper. There’s a gash on his left cheek, viciously cutting through his beard. His eyebrows are pinched together, more out of tiredness than mistrust.

“Hunters, tourist, they’re all the same nowadays. Only ever stop by for the cheap thrill.”

Prompto reaches for the bottle and traces the condensation with his thumb, turning his sights outside once more. The front door is shut, he notices, when back in the day their open doors were a trademark of hospitality.

“So it’s true,” he says. Biting his lip, he turns back towards the man. “How long has this been going if it’s attracting tourists?” The man doesn’t respond. “Let’s try this again. How close do the daemons come to town?”

“It’s just one bastard. Impossible to kill.”

Prompto cants his head to the side. “One daemon, huh.”

“Which proves it’s all fake.”

“Say what now.”

The man sniffs, throwing the rag over his shoulder and leaning over the counter to fix Prompto with a sharp stare. “Longwythe fell off the map once Lucis bounced back after the Ruin. Not a single daemon in years and suddenly one pops up, unkillable, thirsty for blood, in this very spot. Just one.”

“Some are lone haunts,” Prompto considers, but he sees the man’s point. “Think it’s like a publicity stunt or something?”

“You don’t hear about daemons in Lestallum, yeah? Or the Crown City.” The man slams his fist against the counter, and the sound is jarring enough to kick Prompto’s heart into an unstable frenzy.

“Were I to look for this daemon, where’d be the best place to rendezvous?”

“Near the peak to the north.” The man pushes away and reaches for a box at the end of the counter. Cutting it open with a pocket knife, he pulls out pack after pack of napkins, conversation nearing its end. “A warning, though. Last hunter to go after it never came back. But you aren’t a rookie, now, are you?”

Prompto puts down two gil and exits the diner.

Outside, he takes the spot where Kenny Crow once sat. The chill is beginning to seep into his skin, fogging the air he breathes. The night is as quiet as all nights are, with everyone tucked safely in their beds and behind locked doors.

Then there’s him. With a knot in his throat and fear locking his joints Prompto decides he will go out to the peak and see what the fuss is about, if it is a daemon or bored teenagers looking for attention.

He gingerly touches his own injury, now almost fully healed, and wonders if he will be able to take on whatever it is that’s lurking under the cover of night.

Talcott is right. His skills are rusty, not nonexistent, but it’s been years since he’s fought anything evil for the sake of being evil.

_Rumors ‘bout daemons in longwythe. Guys heard anything?_

Prompto types up the text and stares at his screen for what seems like an eternity before even considering selecting the contacts to send them to. He goes through them and selects Ignis, Gladio, and for one horrifying moment, considers selecting Noctis’ old number. He doesn’t, of course. He hits send before thinking better of it and quickly shoves the phone in his pants’ pocket.

Prompto hurries to his feet and makes for the motorcycle, before deciding that he isn’t going anywhere and turns to the motel instead. He rushes across the street, not bothering to look both ways when his phone vibrates.

If only the Astrals were kind enough to strike him down on the spot.

He stands there, under the cover of stars, alone, for a very long time before he gathers enough courage to look at his phone. His stomach is in knots when he opens the message.

_Who is this?_

“What the fuck do you mean ‘who is this’?” Prompto exclaims, immediately shutting his mouth when he remembers it’s almost four in the morning. Huffing, he types Ignis’ reply: _the blond boy wonder_.

He hits send, and not thirty seconds later his phone is alerting him of an incoming call.

Prompto stares in horror at the soft glow of his screen, Ignis’ name blinking. He lets it go on for a couple of seconds before he panics and ends the call before it can go to voicemail.

That, in turn, makes him freak out all the more.

He hurriedly sends yet another message. _Sorry can’t talk right now. Sleep._ He isn’t sure what he hopes the message conveys, but it’s definitely something.

It isn’t until morning when Prompto rolls over onto his side with a groan that he sees Ignis has replied.

_It would seem I incorrectly saved your number. Apologies,_ followed by a solid wall of text

***

The last time Prompto and Ignis had seen each other face to face, in a matter of speaking, was four months after dawn returned to the world. They had shared a mostly one-sided conversation, with Ignis going on and on about what lied in store for them now that their jobs were done.

Of course, Ignis had always been the rational one. Relying on careful calculations and thoroughly thought-out ideas, he was and always will be the epitome of practicality and composure. In short, he was Prompto’s polar opposite.

The visit went as well as he would expect, with Prompto sitting quietly and agreeing with everything Ignis had to say despite disagreeing with him on levels that transcend everything he is. He had spoken about Prompto reaching out and exploring where he fit into the world, of achieving his full potential now that their stories would begin new chapters.

All Prompto could do is grip his wrist hard enough so that his fingers dug into the grotesque barcode on his skin. He had wanted to tell Ignis that he was wrong, that there was nowhere else for him other than by their side. Instead, he cracked a joke and pat him on the back.

_“It’s all good, Iggy. The sun’s shining, we’re alive, now we just gotta take it a step at a time.”_

He tried, but he really didn’t. His world did a bang-up job at falling to pieces when there was no Noctis to pick up the phone at midnight. He realized there was no place for him when Ignis became the head of Insomnia’s restoration committee post Ruin. Top advisor, political icon, all that jazz.

Prompto was just a mechanic’s apprentice.

As it turns out, Prompto had incorrectly saved his number to Ignis’ phone, swapping one digit for another. Purely on accident, but now he feels like a complete idiot.

Ignis went off about how many times he had tried calling, wanting to meet up on the anniversary of Noctis’ death. Apparently, that is a thing he and Gladio do every year, spending the night at different destinations, depending on the flip of a coin, while the rest of Eos celebrated the return of the daybreak with colorful festivals.

He apologizes three times over the course of ten messages. And in a very roundabout way, confesses he’s missed him.

Prompto stays in bed until late afternoon, reading the messages time and time again in order to assimilate every word. There’s an influx of emotion that has him breathing uneven, delighted and relieved that his friend had tried to get in contact with him after all.

_Come back home,_ is the last message Ignis sends him. It’s the one that spurs him into reckless action, determined to rid the world of the scum that has led them to this.

Hate trumps terror as Prompto stocks up on ammo and straps on his gear.

There is no place for daemons here. Not in Lucis. Not after Noctis gave his life to grant them a dawn in which they could thrive and prosper in. He will not let it all be for granted.

The hike to Longwythe Peak is a long one. He follows the pipelines northward, past caverns and abandoned cars until the first bursts of starlight are the only thing lighting his way.

He clicks on his flashlight and attaches it to his jacket, treading warily through the wilderness that spreads out unevenly around him.

The wind picks up in an eerie howl, rustling the scarce bushes and kicking up dirt into his eyes.

Otherwise, it’s quiet.

The early evening is warm enough to keep him going, walking circles around the darker areas of the valley while he considers taking it further into the neighboring hills. With the abandoned mines a handful of miles to the east, the odds of something slipping in and out of them are high.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Prompto mumbles, right hand over his gun and at the ready.

But as the hours tick by he’s met with nothing but blustery silence, and a cacophony of crickets that call this area of the map home.

The town is a blur of white to the south of him, unharmed in the darkness.

Maybe the man was right after all.

The sound of dragging chains has Prompto turning towards a whole lot of nothing, gun cocked and ready in a tight grip.

Darkness spreads around him, but he can hear it. Something creaks and groans in the atmosphere, like the ground itself trying to shake loose the taint that hides within its cracks and crevices.

Prompto pulls his firearm closer to him, steadying his hand as he presses his back against a boulder. He looks about, still seeing nothing when his palms begin to sweat.

It could be kids playing a joke, he begs it to be, but he recognizes the thick charge of electricity in the air.

Whatever it is, it is _quick_.

It’s nothing but a flash out of the corner of his eye and he’s given no time before cold steel connects with the back of his heel, knocking him to the ground.

He rolls onto his back and takes aim, but something cold seeps from his leg, distracting him just enough to receive a scratch on his side. Regardless, Prompto jumps to his feet and backtracks, whipping around for even a glimpse of his assailant.

It continues to linger just out of sight, an inky blur of sentient purple, playing a game of hide and seek as it moves him this way and that, searching for an opening.

Prompto doesn’t offer one.

He’s continuously on the move, granting it no time to attack. He isn’t fast enough to get a clear shot, but he continues to buy himself time until – _until what?_

Taking quick stock of the area, he dodges out of the way in time to avoid the swipe of an appendage dangerously close to his face.

Prompto runs towards the outpost.

It’s a risk, but there is a natural maze sculpted from rocks he can utilize to his advantage. If he can turn the daemon around, confuse it for long enough to swing behind it and get a clear shot, he can close the case.

It’s a risk, but trying to kill an enemy he can’t see diminishes his odds for success.

He’s able to outrun it long enough to lose himself amidst the rocks and bushes, keeping low and quiet until the daemon follows him in.

Clicking off his flashlight, Prompto stays close to the sound of shuffling over dirt. Just out of its line of sight, he manages to steal a glance at the being.

Humanoid, despite its grotesque gait and the unsettling angle of its limbs. It is tall as it is lanky, dragging behind it a mace that is the only source of sound.

Prompto presses himself flush against the rocky surface and seizes his breathing, hoping the rustle of clothing isn’t enough to give away his position.

He moves quickly, turning the corner and taking the first shot, but there’s nothing but more of the same darkness that goes on endlessly.

Something cold latches against the back of his neck. The air is knocked out of his lungs as he’s slammed onto the ground. He grunts, reaching up when the daemon looms over him with the promise of a world of pain, only to realize that his gun is no longer in his hand.

Prompto tries to kick himself free as he’s pinned down by the shoulder. A foot presses him harder onto the ground, making gravel rip into his skin as he’s dragged by forces beyond sight.

Moonlight blurs when a blow to his side sends him skidding across the unforgiving terrain.

Everything burns hot.

He manages to roll onto his knees, air gone and stomach heaving dry, before a hit to the back of his head freezes him in place. There’s a crack, followed by the sensation of coldness dripping down his neck.

The sole of a foot presses against the top of his spine, applying enough pressure to make him choke.

Fingernails scramble over dirt and chipped pebbles, the pain pulsing in his chest urging him to _run_ , but there’s nowhere to go. The weight becomes unbearable, nearly crushing the life out of him.

It lets off without preamble and Prompto braces for a hit that never comes.

The night falls quiet again, unnaturally still as he lays there, gravel digging into the side of his face. He’s afraid of breathing too loudly out of fear it might retaliate, toying with him before it finishes what it started.

His fingers dig into the dirt, anchoring before he allows himself to search blindly for his weapon. There’s nothing within reach, and it takes colossal effort to swallow the sob building underneath his chin.

Clenching his jaw, Prompto pushes himself onto his back.

There’s nothing.

He lays there, shivering, as he stares up at the sky. There is no sign of the moon, but the stars chase unnatural patterns across the black canvas above.

The Starscourge had been purged.

Prompto loses track of time as he lays there, dazed and aching, ashamed of the failed attempt to slay the daemon. A single one, to boot.

He’s practically useless.

He wrestles himself onto his feet at some given point in time and more thoroughly searches for his gun. He can’t find it, but it’s too dark to decide whether it was taken or flung across the valley.

Either way, he’s had enough for one day.

As a whole, he’s had enough for an entire lifetime.

Prompto limps the long trek back into town, doing his damnest to keep himself from falling apart. The closer he gets the more everything goes beyond hurting and into a state of numbness that frightens him.

He can feel blood squishing in his boots and soaking the side of his shredded shirt. The back of his head feels colder than the rest of him, and his left arm doesn’t quite fit in its socket.

He’s shivering by the time he reaches the motel, uncertain of the time. It’s still night, and that’s about the extent of his knowledge.

Prompto stumbles into his room, doesn’t even give himself a second to recuperate before he’s chugging down a potion, ripping off what remains of his clothes and stumbling into the shower. He hisses his way through it, the hot water making his wounds sting and burn, swirling pink down the drain.

He can’t stop his body from trembling in the aftermath of the encounter, even when he shouts at the top of his lungs out of pure frustration.

He forces his mind to shut down as he trips over his feet on the way out of the shower, and violently wretches into the toilet.

It doesn’t matter how many he’s fought, for however long, the mere stench of daemons is enough to render him useless. And he hates it. He hates how weak it makes him while standing in the shadows of others who fought braver still, relentless against the waves of catastrophe.

Maybe it’s moments or maybe it’s hours, but Prompto gingerly puts on fresh clothing that is more forgiving against his abused skin.

He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the wall.

Daemons are ruthless, intelligent in the way animals are – primal. Some are brutes, some are cunning, but none hunt the way humans do; like Prompto does.

The implications are dire, and all he can do is sigh. He’s exhausted but wired, eyes wide open despite the bone-deep ache that begs him to lay down and call it a night. He won’t be able to sleep. Not for days. Not here.

Gathering nothing but a motel blanket, Prompto exits the room.

***

The Three Zs motel has been host to a myriad of shenanigans throughout his life on the road. Mostly in the form of drunken bets, heated arguments over card games, wrestling, and their favorite game of ‘who gets the beds’.

It also accounts for a big number of nights spent in silence, brooding over the past and the future. Loves lost, and dear ones gone. The number of wounds patched up and broken bones mended is beyond his ability to recall.

Truthfully, the same can be said about every place they crashed for the night. From the tent to the caravans, to the fancy hotels, to the Regalia. Each a haven in its own way.

But this specific motel holds a sweeter memory that makes it special to Prompto, and sitting on the rooftop with his feet dangling over the edge, the neon sign blinking at his back, it’s almost more than he can bear.

The blanket isn’t enough to quell his shivering, but he’s okay with that. He wraps a hand around his barcode and shuts his eyes.

He left Hammerhead in a belated attempt to listen to Ignis’ advice, to show Cindy that he is okay despite how hard it sometimes is to open the garage door and let in the sun every morning, to convince himself that this was as good as it got.

And it is. Outside the invisible barrier of his own fortress is nothing but more of the pain he’s tried to bury for years. There is nothing but unfeeling destinations that do not care about the memories that were created there. The world is as uncaring as it always has been. He’s still just a boy with no real home and no family to call his own.

“Longwythe always did suck.”

Prompto startles at the sound of his voice but doesn’t dare turn to it. “Oh, yeah?” he replies, shakily, lungs constricting in his chest. “I wonder if it’s the whole lot of nothing to look at.”

“Maybe,” Noctis says, walking around Prompto’s back to sit down beside him. “The only thing I can remember about it is taking almost a whole day to bash a giant turtle’s head in.”

The knot in Prompto’s throat is almost physical. “That’s, uh, that’s it? All you remember about this place, I mean?”

“Frogs.”

“I remember the frogs.”

Prompto’s heart shatters.

He grips onto his knees, unconsciously rocking himself at the sound of those words.

He risks looking to his side only to find Noctis sitting there, ever so casually, as if he hasn’t been dead for five years. The breeze makes his feathery dark hair dance, framing the features of his profile that are soft with youth. The neon sign touches the edges of him, making him glow with a light that is almost ethereal.

“Whether I’m real or not is relative,” he says, mouth twitching into an almost smile.

“Relative to what?” Prompto can’t stop staring, jarred by the present company. “I’m dreaming.”

“Doesn’t make it any less real.”

“Yeah, it does. A dream’s a dream. You’re still dead.”

“True. But we’re talking, aren’t we?”

“Until I wake up.”

“Hasn’t stopped you from running your mouth,” Noctis says. He’s looking down at his hands, rubbing the area where the ring would be. “I can hear you sometimes, mostly when you’re cursing me out for one thing or another. Typical. Always yelling at me for shit I didn’t do.”

“I never yelled at you!”

“You’re yelling now.”

“Because I’m _pissed_ ,” Prompto spits, and he hates the anger that curls in his gut. “I’m pissed that I’m all the way out here, pissed that I agreed to this stupid trip, pissed that I couldn’t kill a daemon, pissed that there even are daemons—”

“In order for light to exist in the world, there must first be darkness,” Noctis says as if quoting from a book. “That’s what Luna says, anyway.”

“Well, Luna’s full of it.”

“She sometimes is. You don’t mean that, though.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Prompto hides his face in his hands, wishing he’d fall asleep on the spot if he already hasn’t. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m pissed.”

“Feel free to sound off on whatever else is pissing you off.”

Maybe it’s a concussion-induced hallucination. Or maybe he’s in shock.

“Are you a ghost? First Pryna, now you. I… I just don’t know what’s going on anymore. Not like I ever did, but at least I could fake knowing what I was doing back then. This is either a dream or just straight up assholery.”

“You do look pretty banged up.” There’s concern in his voice, and Prompto wishes he couldn’t hear it. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

They lapse into silence then, and Prompto fears Noctis will disappear without warning.

It’s when the black begins to fade into hushed tones of gray that Prompto breaks the impenetrable quiet.

“Mostly, I’m angry that you went somewhere I couldn’t follow,” he confesses, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. “Ride or die. I made a promise to be by your side, remember? Then you made me break it.” Prompto’s voice cracks, but he soldiers on. “I got you back after ten years of mourning, only to lose you again a couple of hours later. This time for good.”

It’s light enough to see now, the first bursts of pink breaking over the horizon.

Prompto laughs at the irony.

“Remember when I said I wouldn’t make time for just any loser?” Noctis says, finally looking at Prompto with something akin to peace in his eyes. “I meant it.”

“S’why you’re here, huh.”

Noctis nods his head. “I tried fighting my way back, but the kings of old drive a hard bargain. There’s the occasional loophole if I look hard enough, but there’s only so much I can get away with.”

“So you are a ghost.”

“Not any more than Pryna is.”

Prompto bites his tongue. “She naps on me.”

“Want me to nap on you?”

“No!” Prompto stammers. “I, uh, I mean no, no, definitely not. Six know what kind of weird side effects that might give me.” He chuckles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Kinda figured you were the one that sent her. You two have that same shimmery thing going on. Like starlight.”

“Takes a lot out of me,” Noctis says, “dead or not.”

Bright orange chases the deep hues of pink across the sky as morning approaches, forcing Prompto to look away from the rising sun. The quiet chill of the early hour renders everything still as if the world is finally allowing him the time to catch up.

There’s peace here, on the rooftop of a derelict motel in the middle of nowhere. Bruised and battered, but alive.

He’s alive.

“I miss you, buddy,” Prompto whispers, unsurprised by the lack of reply.

By the time the sun is high in the sky, he’s sitting with nothing but a blanket and his own grief for company.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come bearing an early update because today was pretty awful and posting new chapters makes me feel better. ~ Here's some softness because Prompto deserves a break and because the "comfort" part of "hurt/comfort" has been kinda MIA.

_Time is an illusion_ , Prompto tells himself as he checks his phone to see that it’s nearly four in the afternoon.

He’s sprawled in the most uncomfortable position ever, an elbow bent in ways that cannot be good for the joints. His mouth tastes like dirt and dry puke. Even his hair hurts, and that’s definitely a new one.

It takes him ages to talk himself into unraveling back into a somewhat human form, and wonders what in the name of the Six made him think sleeping so badly would make things betters come morning.

The long and arduous journey to the bathroom leaves him weak-kneed and lightheaded. He considers returning to bed for another eight hours but oversleeping will only make him feel worse.

A haphazard brushing of teeth and a quick comb through his hair later, Prompto is slipping into the only pair of clothing, aside from his honorary pajamas, that is still in one piece.

He considers doing a quick warm up, but his ribs throb in retribution at the idea alone. Instead, he opts to grab something to eat.

Cup Noodles isn’t going to cut it, so he figures he can scrounge up the last bit of gil in his wallet for a warm meal. Some protein might do the job of getting him up and running again before the day is through.

Plugging in his phone to charge, Prompto heads out.

The temperature is pleasant, not a cloud in the sky, and Pryna is waiting for him by his bike. “Good mornin’,” he greets her, stiffly getting on one knee to scratch behind her ears. “You staying out of trouble?”

She makes a happy sound that has him smiling, and he gracelessly shoves his face into her fur.

Definitely real.

He leaves her to her own devices as he makes a beeline for the diner, stomach grumbling louder than a herd of galloping garulas. The ferocity of his hunger is surprising given his constant lack of an appetite these past couple of months.

The outpost is mostly empty still, with the few people milling about making themselves scarce.

Prompto pauses at the sight of a man sitting at one of the tables outside of the Crow’s Nest, nursing what looks to be a can of coffee like the gods themselves delivered it onto his hands.

Maybe it’s the hair, or the way he sits – back ramrod straight and legs casually crossed at the knee – that has Prompto speechless.

Hunger forgotten and pulse thudding quick, he makes his way towards the table instead.

As a testament to his adaptability, Ignis inclines his head to better listen to Prompto’s approach. He turns towards Prompto, and were it anyone else, he sure would have fooled him.

“Heya, Iggy.”

Ignis’ face instantly shifts from apathy to relief as he uncurls from his position and rises to his feet.

“Prompto,” is all he gets the chance to say before he’s locked in a steel embrace, nearly knocked off balance by the force of it. “I’m glad to see you missed me, old friend.”

“Don’t ever think otherwise, my man.” Ignis returns the hug with enough strength to make Prompto’s injuries bloom in pain, but the affection behind the gesture silences any protest he might even think about uttering. “Lookin’ good.”

“I’d say likewise but due to obvious restrictions, that would be a lie.”

“Well then let me tell you, I look as fine as I always have,” Prompto says, finally relinquishing his hold before they attract even more attention from the people stopping by for dinner.

“Which isn’t very,” Ignis quips, all in jest, judging by the way the corner of his mouth twists upward. “What have you been up to all this time?”

Prompto pulls out a chair for himself, nearly bouncing in it as he rests his arms on the table. He readjusts his position to prop a leg up, thinks better of it when his ribs protest, and puts it back down.

He racks his brain for what to say, to find how not to sound like a useless creature moping across the Lucian outlands in search of the spirit of someone they both lost. He fidgets, mind going back to every bit of him that aches beyond measure before refocusing on the man before him.

“Mostly dealing with weapon modifications,” Prompto finally decides, “Cindy told me you stopped by a couple weeks back.”

Ignis nods his head, wrapping his fingers around the can of Ebony again. “Word travels when you’re the best at what you do. I figured it was due time for a visit.”

“Sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t the best time,” Ignis says, and there’s an airiness to his tone that makes Prompto grin. “Aside from weapons, any other endeavors you’d like to share?”

“No, not really. I mean, I haven’t really been up to much. Decided to take a trip, accidentally ended up here and, well, you know the rest.”

“Do I? You never bothered to reply.”

“I was busy.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m serious!”

Ignis lifts an eyebrow. “Never enough time to visit, I see. What a busy life you must lead.”

Prompto opens his mouth, then closes it, nibbling on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I should’ve at least texted.”

“All this time I thought you were ignoring my calls,” Ignis says, as if only just realizing how silly of an idea that is. “Turns out you saved your contact information incorrectly.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Prompto says, torn between humor and guilt. He could have called Ignis, made things easier on him by realizing one of his few friends wasn’t pointedly ignoring him. “Whatever, man. Mistakes were fixed, and now we’re here. I wonder if anybody else was getting those texts. Imagine how wild that must’ve been.”

“Considering the content in some of them. I’ll admit I may have been less than sober at certain times,” Ignis confesses, frowning off into the distance. “Time passes oddly.”

Prompto is about to agree, and apologize, all in one go before they’re both interrupted by a wolf whistle that makes him twitch.

“Well, if it isn’t the missing Glaive. Nice to see you’re still kicking…more or less. You look like you lost a fight against a sabertusk.”

Of all people to pop up with Ignis.

“You should see the sabertusk,” Prompto grumbles but is interrupted by the surprisingly quiet sound of a can coming into contact with cheap metal. “I’m _fine_ ,” he says before Ignis can ask questions.

“Aranea,” says Ignis, detecting her location with pinpoint accuracy. The name sounds more like a demand, and Prompto is genuinely impressed.

“I said I’m fine! Got a little dinged up during a hunt, nothing too extreme. A guy’s gotta eat, you know?”

“You didn’t go after that daemon alone, did you?” Aranea says, jabbing her finger deep into the tender bit above Prompto’s shoulder. “I knew there wasn’t much of a brain under that hair, but that’s stupid even for you.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing damn well on my own.”

“Boy, haven’t I heard those words before.”

He goes to retort but thinks better of it. Unless she’s mentioned anything about their time in Gralea, Ignis knows nothing other than the superficial story Prompto skimmed through after his rescue from Zegnautus Keep.

“Yeah, well, that was forever ago. Check out these guns.”

“Keep it in your pants for all our sakes.” Aranea stands off to the side, bearing her arms for civilians to witness. It’s not common practice nowadays, but Prompto can write it off as her being alert at the tail end of the news.

Ignis unfolding his legs catches his attention, especially with the way he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, chin cradled in a gloved hand. “You’ve seen the daemon.”

“Ish.”

“Ish?”

Prompto sighs, straightening up to stretch his back. The motion makes him wince when his ribs throb faintly. “It’s humanoid but its proportions are all wrong. Like someone tried sculpting it but didn’t really know what a human looks like. Fast, too. Doesn’t like to be seen, so it won’t stand in front of you.”

“Sounds like a feisty one,” Aranea says.

“It’s still alive.”

The statement flusters Prompto. “I couldn’t kill it if that’s what you’re asking.”

After a brief moment’s silence, he looks up to find Ignis facing him, as if he could see him clear as day. The scar around his eye has not faded, and he has a new one across his nose that is partially obscured by his sunglasses.

The thin press of lips means either a lecture or a heavy dose of disbelief.

“I would appreciate taking this conversation elsewhere,” Ignis says.

“I have a room.”

Prompto guides them across the now busy parking lot, hands in his pockets to keep his fingers from repeatedly clenching and unclenching. He wishes he’d had the opportunity to prepare for this. The last time he had a serious conversation with someone it had taken him days to ready himself for it. The standards of spontaneous communication are just unrealistic.

He feels Aranea’s eyes on him, seizing him up.

Ignis’ presence lingers like a ghost by his side. Call it instinct, his arm is constantly poised to reach out were he to trip. Granted, Ignis would probably make a snarky comment about not needing a human walking stick anymore, but Prompto would much rather deal with that.

“I’m sure you two have got a lot of catching up to do,” Aranea says when they approach the door to Prompto’s room. “I’m a call away if you need me to kick anyone’s ass, blondie’s included.”

“Uncalled for. I’ve kicked your ass at least once.”

“But, hey, who’s counting?” She waves a hand over her head and vanishes down the hall, leaving Prompto to wonder what spurred her change of mind.

He opens the door and Ignis steps inside.

It’s weird seeing him like this. Prompto has witnessed him take out hordes of daemons with his daggers and spellcasting, moving around the field with confidence despite his disability. Here, it’s minute, but Prompto can see the way he carefully maneuvers himself around the small area.

Closing the door, Prompto reaches for him. “Here, let me help.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Ignis says but doesn’t protest when Prompto takes his hand and guides him further into the room. Maybe because he understands how Prompto needs the contact more than anything. Because Ignis is perceptive like that.

“There’s something else that’s bothering you,” he says, tightening his grip on Prompto’s hand as he sits on the edge of the bed. “About the daemon.”

Prompto pulls away to sit on the chair across from him, straddling it to rest his arms on top of the backrest. He runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplating whether or not he wants to say what’s on his mind.

“Prompto?”

“I don’t remember if it was a dream, or if I really saw it.” The last couple of hours he spent awake have muddled together into a monstrous amalgamation of anxiety and fatigue. “I could’ve sworn… I can’t – tell if…” He hides his face in his hands, ashamed of it. “They were all destroyed, weren’t they?”

Ignis stalls by removing his jacket and carefully laying it down beside him. “Are you referring to the magitek?”

Some vague hope in Prompto stood strong after the events that took place in Zegnautus Keep. Without Niflheim, without its leaders and generals, who else was there to create them?

“I’m talking about the clones.”

Ignis shifts his shoulders as he carefully chooses his words. “Curious to stumble upon an infantryman without its armor, especially prior to transformation.”

“Especially after the Marshal and the Glaives said they’d take care of any stragglers?” Prompto adds, dryly.

“Difficult to say. There is still night, therefore they have appropriate cover to manifest. And hide, if need be.”

“But that’s not the point.”

“No, not quite. The point is that there may be a clone gone rogue, and it has made the area near Longwythe its home. Sounds far more likely than a daemonic entity. However far away from home it may be.”

The statement leaves him feeling cold. He’s dealt with this once, and he doesn’t know if he can do it again. Not now, when he’s well and truly alone in the world.

“I’m too scared, or even angry, to even think about what that would mean… having daemons return after so long. After Noct did everything he did to make sure they wouldn’t bother us anymore.” Prompto pauses, uncontrollably bouncing his leg. He shakes his head. “I guess… _ideal_ would be the proper word, if it was a clone instead, you know? Those should be easier to kill. In theory. Yeah.”

He startles when long fingers tap the side of his head.

Ever so stealthily, Ignis rose to his feet and moved to stand in front of him, looming over Prompto in the brightly lit room. Gloves removed, he threads both of his hands through Prompto’s hair, lightly dragging his nails across his scalp.

It’s a calming technique Ignis would use on him after particularly rough days, when they all laid huddled in their tent, mending all sorts of wounds.

“You are Prompto Argentum,” he says in a stern whisper, grounding him to the here and now. “Proud Lucian, and how or where you were born does not define you.”

“It feels like it does,” he whispers right back, clenching his eyes shut to deny his ghosts a chance to manifest.

“You fought alongside us, for the Light, for the King, for your family. Those are not things a bad person does.” Prompto leans into the touch, the tenseness in his shoulders seeping out of him. “If what you saw was indeed one of that man’s creations– _it was not you_. It will never be you. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it,” he says. “I’ve gotten it for a while now. Sometimes… It’s just easy to forget.”

Ignis draws his fingers over Prompto’s forehead, then traces a single one down his nose. He moves on to glide them over the rest of Prompto’s face as if recalibrating his memory and adapting it to benefit other senses. His thumbs run along the curve of his cheekbones, down the slopes of them, until they come to rest at his chin, where he tugs on Prompto’s facial hair.

Prompto stifles a laugh, which in turn makes Ignis smile.

He traces the scars across his face, the smile never faltering.

“I’ve a favor to ask,” Ignis says, pulling him closer to rest his head on his chest.

It sinks in, at long last, that Ignis is real and not a representation of his heart’s desires like Pryna and Noctis were. He is real and warm and present, his heartbeat a steady thrum against Prompto’s ear, his arms a protective comfort he hasn’t had the luxury to experience in years.

That Ignis is still capable of such love and compassion makes Prompto feel undeserving.

“I can’t go back,” Prompto says before he can elaborate. “I keep hearing about the rebuilding effort and how politics are a mess after all the people have been through.”

“Insomnia is a work in progress as it currently stands.”

“Insomnia is nothing but an empty throne room.” And he hates sounding so pessimistic. Maybe it’s his age, maybe he’s more tired than he previously thought. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Of course you did. There is nothing wrong with giving voice to your thoughts. We all mourn in our own ways.”

Prompto envies Ignis’ composure in the face of emotionally trying situations. He’s known Noctis for far longer, shared a bond unique to the two of them, and it isn’t fair of Prompto to forget that he’s not the only one grieving the loss of their friend.

“How’ve you been doing, Iggy?”

Ignis doesn’t let go of him.

“I’ve been better,” he admits, and Prompto’s surprised by the candid answer. “A kingdom without a reigning ruler and parliamentary structure is as chaotic as you would expect it to be. The acting committee is uncertain as to how we should proceed and the people are becoming restless. The innermost band of the city has done quite well reestablishing its executive hub. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of the Crown City. We’ve no trade routes, and while the power is back on, we simply do not have the manpower to get back on our feet.”

Prompto presses his nose against the fabric of his shirt, amazed by how good Ignis smells. “Not a lot of our people returned, huh?”

“You weren’t the only one who decided against it,” Ignis says with a soft sigh. “The years of Ruin instilled a new priority within Lucian hearts.”

“Rebuilding the outposts outside of the Crown City.”

“Without its Walls, Insomnia is yet another piece of land within the kingdom. So is Niflheim, with no emperor to rule.”

Prompto pulls away to stare up at him. “Wait, you’re not actually thinking about—”

“Five years isn’t enough to rebuild a world ravaged by the scourge,” Ignis says, playfully patting his cheek. “Worry not. Conquering territories isn’t on our list, especially with no royal family to lead.”

“All those poor people,” Prompto says.

“We are all trying our best to see it through. However long it may take.”

They lapse into silence, arms’ length away from each other as the late afternoon sun seeps in through the parted curtains. Dust motes dance in the triangle of light that cuts across the floor, like stars twinkling in the daytime.

“I still have things to do,” Prompto eventually says, facing forward to rest his forehead against Ignis’ chest again. “I’m taking this trip, trying to come to terms with everything that’s happened, trying to shake off this funk that’s totally cramping my style.”

Ignis presses his face to Prompto’s hair, and it’s definitely his version of a comforting kiss. He holds him, the chair between them making things slightly difficult, but it’s nice. Prompto feels more whole than he has in a very long time, and maybe Ignis is right. Returning to Insomnia may not be the worst of ideas.

“Even the sun is not impervious to rainy days,” Ignis says. “Once the clouds part, the sun will still linger in the heavens.”

“Can’t tell if that’s from the Cosmogony or…” Ignis pinches his ear, making him giggle like a kid.

“Promise me you will come home once you’ve made your peace.”

Prompto doesn’t look up, moving his hands to grip the sides of Ignis’ shirt. “I promise I’ll stay in contact until further notice.”

“That’s good enough.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Prompto.”

***

They part ways the following morning, with Aranea getting Prompto in a headlock and ruffling his perfect hair until it’s nothing but a wild griffin nest.

They swap numbers, correctly this time, and share surprisingly genuine handshakes that leave Prompto feeling flustered as people ogle.

“I contacted Iris over at Hunter HQ, asked her to keep her feelers out now that we have a confirmed case, sort of,” Aranea says, leaning against the open driver’s door of the car they drove here. “I’ve no doubt you can hold your own, but if you ever feel like doing some ass-kicking don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

Trying his best to get his hair back into a semblance of its rightful self, Prompto flashes her a grin. “Only if you don’t hold me back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pretty boy.”

Ignis opens the passenger door and stands by it; Prompto takes it as an indication to approach him. “Be careful,” he says, unfazed when the engine turns over. “Self-discovery is not something that must be done alone.”

“I spent a lot of time with you guys. And I spent a lot of time by myself,” Prompto says as he leans against the opposite side of the door. “I feel like I’ll be okay now, for a little while. You focus on getting Insomnia back to its former glory and I’ll worry about good ol’ me.”

Ignis gets in and Prompto closes the door for him, the window rolling down shortly after. “I forgot to mention: Gladio sends his regards.”

Prompto scoffs in disbelief. “You serious?”

“He hardly gets any signal wherever the wind takes him. I’ll admit we haven’t had much contact during the past couple of months, but he did ask if I had heard anything from you.”

“Huh.”

“Give him a call whenever you have the opportunity.”

“Schedule a camping trip?”

“So long as you don’t forget to invite me.”

“As long as you cook for us,” Prompto says, his mouth watering at the idea of a hot meal by Ignis’ hands.

“Gladly.”

With that, Prompto steps back as the window rolls up and the car drives away, leaving him to the company of Pryna once more. He looks down at her and gives her a thumbs up.

“What do you say we hit Hunter HQ? Maybe Gladio and Iris will be there.”

Pryna wines, but otherwise spins on the spot and sits down, offering him her paw.

“No idea what that means,” he says, giving it a good shake, “but I’ll take it as a yes.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter because I struggled for the longest time on whether or not it should've been posted on its own or as part of the oncoming one. As for every kind soul who has dropped kudos, comments, and bookmarks -- may fortune favor you for the next seven years. ❤

“Then there was this one time where we hid his clothes, right? Oh, man. Let me tell you. I had to wear a pair of Noct’s shoes for a week before Iggy gave me mine back. Fun times.”

They’re cruising down the highway at a manageable speed, the wind wildly whipping Prompto’s hair as the temperature rises, the sun beating down relentless yet welcome. Anything is better than rain. He wants to drive the long road and keep going, an airy feeling trapped in his chest since heading out of Longwythe.

He hurts all over still, bruised and a little worse for wear, but he’s breathing and rejuvenated after spending a couple of hours with a dear friend. The bickering recharged him more than any decent meal ever could. The knowledge that he is alive and well fuels the electricity on the tip of his fingers. He can go for miles without the need to stop.

He tries not to think about losing track of the creature miles behind him now. No amount of searching, despite being just as poorly prepared but slightly more cautious, granted him any more answers than what he already had on hand. Slightly troubled, he trusts the hunters being dispatched to have better luck than him.

“Life could be so much worse,” Prompto says, surprising himself with the smile that tugs at the edges of his mouth. “After all those years, all that we lost, at least we have the Light back, you know? We can go out and not worry about getting jumped by daemons all day every day.”

Prompto takes his eyes off the road for only a second, looking up at the crystalline sky that stretches over Lucis. For once, he doesn’t feel the pang of bitterness that tends to ruin his day. Loneliness, sure, but that’s a part of it. They have all made sacrifices beyond their capabilities to cope, but it has all been said and done.

“I hope Lady Lunafreya is keeping you in line.” It’s easy to imagine Noctis giving the Astrals a hard time for one reason or another. The last thing they’d want is to piss them all off. “You deserve the break, so quit fighting it.”

And he means it.

As certain as the specter Prompto witnessed, Noctis deserves rest. Him more than the rest of them. Life granted him an unfair outcome, but they all did the best they could to make it a good time.

Pulling over along the side of a nameless road, Prompto slumps in on himself.

He’s been an idiot.

So many places to go, places to see. Rather than feeling sorry for himself, he ought to be searching for the place where he belongs. A place he can start anew and makes use of the opportunity he’s been given – of the chance Noctis has given all of them.

“Guess that’s what Iggy was trying to say,” he tells Pryna, who is looking up at him with oddly inquisitive eyes. “I don’t have to let him go. I don’t have to forget what I’ve felt, what I’ve gone through, so long as I don’t let it drown me.”

_That’s the spirit._

He can almost feel the friendly pat on the back, the teasing ruffling of his hair.

“It’s like I’ve been taking everything for granted, huh. There’s so much I should be grateful for and yet here I am… licking my wounds. Forcing myself to be alone when I have friends who are waiting for me.” Prompto swallows hard around the knot in his throat. “I guess I do have a home, still.”

Pryna huffs, tail wagging, as if thrilled that he’s reached that conclusion at long last.

“You’re like him, aren’t you?” Prompto says, reaching down to scratch behind her ear. “Here enough to whip my ass into shape; make sure I don’t do anything too stupid with myself.” Pryna pushes her nose against the palm of his hand, asking for more pets. He concedes. “Don’t go disappearing on me just yet, okay?”

He looks up again, squinting when the sun gets in his eyes. It’s so bright out, brighter than he ever remembers it being, but he’s okay with that. Let the sweat gather behind his neck and his pants stick to his thighs.

The sun is out and the land before him is vibrant and green and beautiful. Life breathes around him, gently swaying and pulsing as it’s meant to. There is hope for tomorrow, a bit more of a guarantee that he will wake up and face yet another day, another opportunity to make this all worthwhile.

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. Okay.”

Clearing his throat, he maneuvers the motorcycle around and guns it, hands tight on the handles before he can change his mind. Before he puts this all behind him, there is one last place he has to go.

Home is calling, and Insomnia has never liked to be kept waiting.

***

It takes him four days to reach Hammerhead, and when he does, the first thing he does is apologize for a solid hour.

Cindy tries comforting him with her best pat on the shoulder, but Prompto has none of it as he goes on endlessly on how sorry he is for being a complete ass since they first met.

“I should’ve known,” he says, words mushing together as he tries to get them all out in the open before he freaks out. “I shouldn’t have tried to ignore everything, I shouldn’t have been dragging my feet behind you to get you to notice me when you already did but not in _that_ way and I made a total ass out of myself and I’m sorry for all the times I burst out crying for no reason—”

He goes on and on, unable to stop, and Cid is half grumbling and half chuckling to himself as he lounges under his umbrella by the shop. “Boy, keep talkin’ that fast and you’ll swallow your tongue. Act your damn age.”

“Honestly,” Cindy says, “it’s all good, sweet pea. We done lived and learned and now here we are. I sure am glad you got that head of yours settled…” She leaves the sentence hanging, turning her sights to the motorcycle. “Might not forgive you for what you done to my girl, however. What on Eos is that thing?”

Prompto goes off, again, giving a convoluted explanation that makes no sense whatsoever. He doesn’t mention Pryna, or the accident, or anything that has happened since leaving several weeks ago, but Cindy’s looking at him with a mixture of amusement and concern.

“You done look like you could use a good nights’ sleep,” she says, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him towards the diner. “Let’s grab some grub.”

They don’t order. Instead, Takka brings them their usual, free of charge, and slips a bottle of the good stuff onto the table without being asked. He’s a smart man when he wants to be.

Both ravenous and queasy, Prompto nudges his fries around the plate but doesn’t eat. Nervousness twists his gut, making the walls of his stomach clench unpleasantly at the thought of what is coming next. He has made his choice and he will go through with it, but odds are he will continue to put it off until his hand is forced.

“I’m headed for the Crown City tomorrow.”

Cindy stops chewing. It takes her a moment before she’s wiping salad dressing from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “Well I’ll be.” She removes her hat and puts it on the table beside her plate, running hands through her yellow hair to let her slight curls loose. “That’s what got you in all sorts of knots.”

Prompto uncaps the bottle and takes a swig, grimaces, before passing it to her. He’ll ask for a bottle of water if Takka swings by again. “I’m hoping you’ll talk me out of it.”

“Why the heck would I?”

“I don’t know. But I was _really_ hoping you would.”

Cindy leans back against the red booth, stretching her back as she thoughtfully looks out the window.

She isn’t going to convince him of anything, he knows this, but it was worth a shot.

“You ain’t a coward, Prompto,” she says, softer than he’s ever heard her speak. “I remember when I first met you. Kinda skeptical when Paw-paw told me you were part of the prince’s entourage, all lanky and awkward and too bright for someone dressed in all black. Not that big a deal next to someone like Big Guy or Sharp Stuff.”

“You thought I was lanky?”

“Point is, you gone and proved me wrong,” Cindy says, ignoring his remark. “I don’t need to go on about all the things you done since then, all the lives you saved and the people you helped.” She picks up her fork and stabs a tomato, waves it around to emphasize the point she’s trying to make. “You are a brave man. And if your heart is telling ya it’s time to head back on home, then dangnamit you better be listening. I ain’t gon’ do nothing stop you.”

Prompto stares down at his plate, hands on his lap as he mulls over her words. He doesn’t consider himself a brave man. Foolhardy, maybe, but hardly brave. His strength had only ever been on loan from his friends.

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” he says.

“The Crown City’s a mighty big place. Plan on bein’ gone long?”

“Don’t know yet. All depends on how long I can afford to stay there.”

“You can always call up a friend,” she says with a wink.

Prompto offers her a lopsided smile but doesn’t tell her that absolutely no one other than her, Cid and a certain astral dog know about this. The mere idea of calling up Ignis makes him want to turn over his lunch when he doesn’t even know where he spends his nights at. Maybe he has an apartment, or, the Six forbid, maybe he crashes somewhere Prompto doesn’t even want to think about – like _the Citadel_.

“We’ll see how that goes.”

Cindy reaches for a napkin and throws it at him.

Come morning Prompto leaves the motorcycle in the garage and heads out with nothing but the clothes on his back. He isn’t entirely sure why he does it, why he chooses to make the long walk, but he does.

Pryna stays beside him as the sun rises and shines down on his shoulders without mercy, daring him to take another step. He continues to take them, one by one, marching past the empty blockade. There is no security, imperial or otherwise, to stop him.

Getting into Insomnia had been a near impossibility back in the day, with four security checkpoints and a myriad of legal papers required. Even to other Lucian’s the city had been an impregnable fortress, hard to visit, futile to acquire help from. Insomnia could have well been a country on its own, and where he stands, fifteen years and a war later, Prompto can empathize with the actions of the Kingsglaive.

Noctis would have been a magnificent king.

The kid who would go out of his way to deliver repair kits and find wounded hunters, searched for frogs because a professor politely asked, fed stray cats that would rub up against his legs. The man who gave his life to guarantee them one to live.

_I say we break down the borders. Come together as one nation._

He would have been the best fucking king to ever sit on Lucis’ throne.

Prompto walks because he can, because thousands of people crossed this bridge fleeing a ruined city that once harbored nothing but tranquility. He would have too had he been there.

Now, he walks towards the place his journey began and ended, in hopes that he can finally find the closure that so elusively continues to slip from his grasp.


	9. Chapter 9

The city looks different.

The last time Prompto laid eyes on Insomnia he had been fighting for his life with Gladio and Ignis by his side.

The buildings were crumbling skeletons, streets but a ghost of their former selves. Cars had been abandoned, doors still open and keys left in their ignitions, covered in layers of dust and dirt. Statues had crumbled to the ground. Fountains with stagnant water gone green and rancid.

There had been nothing but ruin lining every inch of the previously radiant city, a wasteland of rubble and daemons as darkness engulfed and destroyed.

It’s visceral to see the stark contrast between Insomnia and the world on the other side of the bridge.

Billboards light up the bustling city streets, broadcasting advertisements for a new smartphone with a catchy jingle. Cars take the roundabout faster than permitted, horns honking as pedestrians take their time along the crosswalk.

The cobblestone beneath his feet is new. He can tell by the absence of the occasional dips that would always make him trip, regardless of how many times he had walked those same streets.

The stone arches at the center of the city are now empty, the effigies of past Lucian kings gone.

But above all there are people out and about, talking away on their phones, filling the air with laughter and music and life.

It’s as if the past never happened. As if Insomnia never fell into the hands of the Niflheim Empire. As if it never lost its royal family or its single source of protection.

Prompto is conflicted, to say the least.

Both joyous relief and subtle anger bubble beneath the surface. While Insomnia is once more the hub of luxury it used to be, other Lucian territories continue to battle against the ruin that befell them all with the thin hope of becoming half of the utopia the Crown City is.

The disparity is so blatantly obvious.

He stands helplessly by a storefront selling sports gear while he realigns himself, feeling like a teenager again, but far more out of place than he ever did before.

Soaring above the skyline, with architecture regal and proud, is the Citadel. It shines gold in the sunlight, every bit as awe-inspiring as it always has been. A testament to Lucian resilience even in the face of the wickedest adversity.

Prompto hovers, killing time by looking at window displays at stores he doesn’t really care about. High fashion, shoes, hats, purses, kitchen wares, art studios, he can go on. He can’t remember if there was always this much variety, having never paid attention to the shopping avenues outside of the times he and Noct went out to eat during weekend nights.

Pryna threads through the crowd with ease, always a couple of feet in front of Prompto and he knows she’s guiding him somewhere. He tries to act like he hasn’t noticed. The places she leads him to often make it difficult for him to keep a lid on emotions constantly at the ready to overflow.

He moves along like a ghost, as unrecognizable as he’s always been.

Prompto briefly considers visiting the apartment he grew up in to see if it’s still there, but ultimately decides against it. Being at the center of the city is hard enough as it is.

A poster eventually catches his eye, fairly new, plastered over a perfume ad on the side of a store. A young man is trying to remove it, cursing to himself as he scrapes away at it to no avail.

Bold black letters overlay a red banner, the image of a hand in the air and the words _reclaim what is rightfully yours_ arching over it makes Prompto step closer. He has never seen any sort of political propaganda outside of tabloid magazines claiming fake revolts against the crown.

Prompto recalls Ignis mentioning political unrest with the lack of a royal family. He wonders where the popular vote rests, if the people of Insomnia know, or even care, about the actions of their last monarchs. Most of these people spent the last decade or so in Lestallum, so he can empathize with them on some level.

“Enlightened, my ass,” the young man says, mostly to himself. “Complete anarchy, more like.”

Prompto steps away before any sort of conversation takes root. Suddenly, he regrets not pushing Ignis for more information on the current state of affairs. Not that he knows a thing about politics, but the basics are better than nothing. Anarchy or not, Insomnia seems to be functioning flawlessly.

A tug at his jacket has him looking down at an agitated Pryna, who twirls in place before darting off across the busy street.

His heart drops into his stomach at the thought of her causing an accident so he dashes after her, uncaring about the horns honking at him and the people shouting for him to move as he runs across the busy intersection of the executive square.

He’s faced down worse creatures to be scared of a couple of old men in fancy business suits and pricy suitcases threatening to call law enforcement. That doesn’t stop him from apologetically waving his hands and shouting out half-baked apologies as he stumbles over his feet.

Pryna leads him past the overbearing crowds and towards the quieter parts of the city. The boring parts, as he used to call them, having failed to realize what the scenic places truly meant to the people nearest to them.

The gates to the park are wide open for anyone to wander in, and that’s exactly what he does.

He slows to a jog then walks along the stone path that winds around tell bushes and bubbling fountains. The wrought-iron benches are intact, and birdbaths are filled with water and flowers.

A canopy of trees stretches above his head, shielding him from the going-ons of the corporate and political world.

He knows that only a matter of feet to the west of him is the back entrance to the Citadel. The number of times he snuck in to steal Noctis away from his princely duties are astronomical.

On more than one occasion did King Regis catch them, grounding them both for a matter of hours before sending them off for ice cream. He would later overlook any harmless wrongdoings so long as they brought him back a pint of pistachio with a side of rainbow sprinkles.

Another time, Gladio kicked Prompto’s ass for it.

Sunlight filters interrupted through the leaves that rustle in the breeze, making off shadows across the ground. Faded chalk drawings litter the path in all colors, most of them too blurred to read, but Prompto’s chest warms when he picks up the gist of them.

They’re thank you notes, mostly from children. Some of them old enough to recall what it was to see the sunrise, and others young enough to have seen it for the very first time five years ago.

There are drawings, too. Moogles, flowers, chocobos, cartoons he hasn’t seen since childhood, among other things. Prompto follows the path, trying to read as best he can until he reaches the end, cobblestone turning to a field of green grass.

He heart grows heavy as he looks at the structure before him. Domed ivory with obsidian inlays, the statue of an oracle guarding the heavy door beneath her. New in comparison to every other Royal Tomb he’s visited.

Pryna rests at the top of the stairs leading down into the chamber, head on crossed paws and eyes closed as her back rises and falls in tandem with the breeze.

Prompto doesn’t want to see the name engraved on the plaque.

He has seen enough.

“I didn’t even bring him flowers,” he chokes out, a wobbly smile struggling to surface.

He has done enough.

He never attended the burial. Never stepped foot back in Insomnia once the sun rose, not after what they had to do.

He can never forget the cold rush of mixed emotions when dawn arrived for the first time in ten years, because he knew what that meant.

As the daemons fell and the creeping warmth of sunlight graced the land, they rushed back into the Citadel.

Prompto can never forget the sight they were met with, the surge of adrenaline and grief as he ran up that staircase towards the throne, stumbling over slick marble.

There are no words that can properly convey the anguish he felt when Gladio grabbed onto the sword’s hilt and pulled, releasing Noctis’ body from where it was pinned up like a butterfly.

Prompto had been the one to catch him, but strength abandoned him when the finality of it set in.

It was Ignis who picked him up -- quiet and resigned -- and moved Noctis to the floor level of the throne room, where he and Gladio tried everything in their power to undo what was done.

Prompto cannot forget the way Ignis’ hands shook as he administered more potions than ever needed, or the way Gladio rested Noctis’ head on his lap as if that would help breathe air into his lungs.

A crucial part of Prompto died with Noctis that day.

And with that, Prompto was done.

His job was done. They all fought together until the bitter end and Insomnia had been reclaimed. He had become a kingless glaive, and so he laid down his weapons and removed his uniform.

Home was theirs again, but what made the Crown City home now laid on the cold, hard ground.

He walked away from that throne room, walked out of the Citadel, and never answered Gladio’s enraged commands for him to return. Prompto walked into his self-imposed exile and never looked back. Until now.

“It had to end here, didn’t it?” Prompto says, stepping up to the top of the stairs and lingering beside Pryna.

There are unlit candles lining the edges of the walls, as well as ribbons and stuffed animals. There’s a particularly roughed up moogle he recognizes propped up against a vase of white flowers. “At least they remember you.”

He walks down the steps and stops mere feet from the door, fist over his heart as he bows in respect for his fallen king.

“I thought you were the coolest kid in school when I first met you,” he says, letting his hand drop to his side. “All broody for whatever reason. All the girls kept giggling whenever you walked by, hoping you’d notice them. I hoped with every part of my being that you would never see me. But then Pryna happened, and Luna, like it was all some part of a grand scheme.”

Prompto sits cross-legged among the sea of trinkets, his back to the door.

The garden looks every bit as calming as it always has. The memories of Iris being chased by Gladio before prom, and Ignis teaching Noctis how to properly dance before leaving for Altissia playing like a film.

“Thinking back, you thought you were so edgy.” He laughs. “Turns out you were just a big nerd like the rest of us.”

Pressure builds in his chest, the heartache he’s swallowed for so long finally pushing itself free from the confines of his ribcage. Prompto breathes deep to calm himself, to center himself in the now.

“I just want to thank you,” he says. “I know it goes without saying. That you know we’re all grateful for what you did. For being someone who talks nonstop I can’t believe I never once told you that. And that I miss you. A whole lot. We all do. But you know that, too, I bet.”

Prompto picks a lily from the flower arrangement closest to him and spins it between his fingers. The scent dances around his nose, soothing and otherworldly, peaceful.

“No more surprise visits,” he says, the knot in his throat tightening to near painful. “I don’t know if that’s you trying, or if it’s just my head trying to deal with the loneliness… but I don’t think I can take it anymore.” Prompto wipes the edges of his eyes, biting his bottom lip to keep it from shivering. “You’re not here anymore, and I’m doing my best to come to terms with that.” He huffs out a breath in hopes to ease the pain, but all it does is burn on the way out. “I’m gonna try a little harder now. I won’t forget you, I don’t think I’ll be able to, but to spite the Six I’m gonna try my hardest to be happy.”

Prompto looks up at the flowing hem of the oracle’s dress, allowing newfound strength to fill him.

“For you and for Luna. I’m done with this now.” He clenches his fists. “You hear that? I’m done with all of you!” he shouts, voice cracking.

Ignis once reprimanded him for shit-talking the gods, but Prompto never knew religion, not until he witnessed the Six with his very eyes. So far, all they have done is test the limits of humanity and he’s pretty fucking done with them.

Not that it matters.

According to Ignis and Talcott’s studies, the gods returned to their eternal slumber once the True King Ascended to the throne.

Eos belongs to them now. It would be an empowering thought had it not been for the fact that his immediate world feels crumbled and forgotten.

“Prompto?”

Prompto startles, rushing to his feet and catching himself against the wall behind him. “Ah, crap. I thought the Astrals we’re coming to smite my ass.”

“I’m hardly that divine,” Ignis says, descending the stairs.

“I beg to differ.”

Ignis smiles at that. “Smiting is still on the table.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Decided to follow the kweing of a chocobo. Only, imagine my surprise coming across you instead.”

Prompto runs both his hands through his hair, heart hammering against his chest. “You really did scare me.”

“My apologies.” Ignis approaches him, fingers tentatively reaching for Prompto’s bicep. “You’ve finally decided to pay him a visit.”

“Cindy convinced me,” he lies, and judging by the way Ignis raises an eyebrow, he isn’t buying it. “Thought it’d be a good way to end my trip.”

“I hope said trip has served you well.”

“A little. I mean, I’m standing here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.” Ignis softly squeezes his arm, turning towards the tomb door. “Will you be staying?”

“I don’t know yet. It feels weird to see how far along Insomnia is compared to the rest of Lucis.”

“That’s the point I’ve been trying to express during the council meetings,” Ignis says, sounding tired. “What’s left of it seems to think Insomnia is still the pinnacle of rule and order across the land. They insist that unless we are running at full capacity, the rest of the kingdom will falter.”

“The rest of the kingdom is doing pretty fine, though.” Prompto thinks of the places he’s been to, of how Galdin Quay is bustling with tourists, and how new outposts have popped up and are thriving.

Ignis nods his agreement. “They could be doing much better with more resources.”

“Hogging it all up, huh?”

“The council is divided on its opinions, and with no sovereign it is nearly impossible to decide on a single course of action.” Ignis sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge of it. “It’s been years of this and no end in sight. I was trained to be an advisor, not a politician. There is so much Noct wanted done, and I’m powerless to see any of it through.”

Prompto lays his hand over the one on his arm and squeezes. “It’s an uphill battle, but we’ve taken on worse.”

“That we have.”

They lapse into silence, allowing the breeze to sway them in that cool afternoon.

Prompto wants to ask him how he’s fairing, just how he’s been able to soldier on with such a monumental reminder of his loss in his metaphorical backyard. Ignis may be a pinnacle of discipline, but he is still human with painfully human emotions.

The smell of flowers swells and then vanishes, leaving nothing but the gritty scent of trees and dirt in its wake.

“Hey, Iggy—”

“Have you eaten anything?”

Taken aback by the sudden interruption, Prompto lets it go. Apparently, he isn’t the only one looking for ways to either move on or make the pain hurt less after all.

“Not since last night.”

“Come, then. I’ll fix you something up.”

Prompto could dance at the prospect of a home-cooked meal made by none other than Ignis himself. “Aw yeah! Bring it on. Haven’t had anything remotely as tasty as anything you could whip up in years.”

Ignis pats his arm before releasing him, heading towards the steps. “Of course you haven’t. Modesty aside, I’m good at what I do.”

“When have you ever been modest?”

Prompto turns for one last goodbye, heart on his sleeve and feet alight with the present company. The little wedge of happiness is enough to keep him going until who knows when, but it is enough.

“Catch you later, bud,” he says, lightly touching his fingertips to the door.

He freezes when the cold slab gives under the minuscule pressure, and he immediately steps back as if burned.

“What was that sound?” Ignis says, instantly appearing by his side again. “Prompto?”

“I… I don’t…” He looks at Ignis who faces the door unseeing, then stares back to it. “It’s open.”

“That’s impossible. I was here when it was sealed. Saw to it myself that it would be impenetrable.”

Prompto clenches his fist but doesn’t otherwise move.

He’s seen the inside of Royal Tombs before, but this is different. He would not be able to handle it; he’s sure of it.

“Is anything out of place?” The question is cautious, imbued with an apology at asking Prompto to be his eyes.

Prompto stands perfectly still, too frightened to even think. But Ignis is reaching for him again. He doesn’t have to do this alone.

Eyes clenched shut, Prompto pushes the door open wider and bites back a whimper at the cold air that rushes him. It smells of flowers and perfume, two wholly unexpected scents, but it’s enough to get him to look out of curiosity alone.

Feeling sick, he can only speak the one question that comes to mind. “Are the Kingsglaive still active?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear that previous cliffhanger was unintentional. The chapter was getting too long and that seemed like the only suitable breaking off point! Many apologies and much love to everyone who let me know exactly how they felt last week. You're all precious and I'm undeserving of your love! ❤
> 
> In this chapter: spoilers for the Royal Edition (because I was able to retcon this chapter on a very short amount of time and I am EXTREMELY proud of myself) but nothing too big? I personally thought it was a very amusing (and sweet!) gesture from the game devs to somehow work the player's Comrades OC into the main game. Takes balls, kids.
> 
> Other than that, a certain someone finally shows his handsome face. ~

The Citadel rises over them, unforgiving in the light of day. Its towers a reminder of the fortress that held both darkness and light within its halls. A monument to the beauty and power of the Kingdom of Lucis and its kings.

Prompto struggles to keep up with Ignis as he storms up the entryway with all the authority of a man who knows his place in this brave new world. He marvels at how he doesn’t miss a single step, opens doors Prompto would have easily walked into even with his sight. Ignis is as intimidating as he’s always been, and Prompto has never felt luckier to be his friend.

The few people that walk about the lobby stop and stare, bewildered at the sudden entrance and the agitated aura Ignis seems to exude.

Prompto, on the other hand, remains level-headed enough to take in his surroundings without caving into the darker emotions swirling in his chest. It’s eerily reminiscent of the days they would hunt together, crawling through dungeons and facing monsters beyond one’s wildest nightmares.

“Get me Libertus,” Ignis says to the room in general, trusting that someone will listen.

Prompto follows him down a hallway, past closed rooms he vaguely recalls seeing years ago. They ride an elevator four floors up, down more hallways Prompto’s never walked through, until they reach a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook East Insomnia.

There is a large round table at its center, with three people sitting by it. None of which he recognizes.

On one of the walls, a large screen television broadcasts a news report on mute. On another wall is a portrait of the Lucis Caelum family crest.

“Captain,” Ignis greets.

A large man with hair tied back in tight braids approaches them, extending his hand for Ignis to shake. “Heard you wanted to see me.”

“There’s been a breach on royal property,” Ignis wastes no time in saying. “The king’s tomb has been opened.”

The two Glaives by the table are suddenly on their feet. The young woman with shoulder-length black hair is the first one to step up. “Is anything missing?”

The lack of an answer has the three of them exchanging stiff glances once the last of their troupe joins them. Hands at their back they stand at attention, assimilating the gravity of the situation.

“This is Lieutenant Skie Lucem,” Libertus says about the woman. “And cadet Arce.”

“Arce…?” Prompto says.

“Just Arce,” the man with seafoam hair says, looking directly in front of him with the concentration of a soldier trying his hardest to earn his rank.

“Prompto Argentum,” Libertus says as if just realizing that Ignis wasn’t alone when he walked into the room. “Heard a lot of good things about you.”

Prompto gives him a weak salute before fumbling to shake his hand. “Same here. I’m glad you guys are still in business.” Moving on to shake Skie’s hand next, he’s met with a hint of recognition he doesn’t mention.

“Your orders,” Libertus prompts, turning back to Ignis once they’ve dillydallied enough.

“Mobilize the Kingsglaive.”

Libertus nods while turning to Skie and Arce. “Send word. What are we looking for?”

Before anyone can answer, a small group of people spills into the room without warning. Among them is Aranea, and to Prompto’s surprise, Gladiolus.

“The king,” Ignis says, and judging by the sudden quiet in the room, everyone understands. “The king is missing.”

Libertus’ jaw clenches, but he jerks his head for the others to follow. “Nobody leaves this city until we’ve found him. Insomnia is now on lockdown,” he barks his orders, Skie and Arce running out of the room to gather the others. “No stone will be left unturned,” he directs at Ignis, following his Glaives out.

“What do you mean he’s missing?” Gladio says, stepping past the others to get closer to Ignis. “How does a corpse go missing, exactly?”

Prompto winces at the words but stands his ground, looking Gladio in the eye. “That’s what we’d like to know,” he says, once more surprised by the steadiness in his voice.

“We can start off by making a list of people who would want to desecrate a royal tomb,” Aranea says, walking around them to prop herself up onto the table. Legs crossed, she looks to each of them. “Anybody want to throw names into the pot?”

“The obvious starting point would be enemies of the Crown,” Gladio says, opting to lean against a far wall instead, keeping them all in his sights.

“With no empire, the list must be small to begin with,” Aranea adds, but then taps her chin with a long nail. “Unless it’s someone closer to home.”

Across the room, Gladio gestures to Prompto. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“I can ask you the same thing.”

“Been huntin’.”

“Me too.”

“Come now,” Ignis interrupts, putting a hand on Gladio’s shoulder. “We can work around this later. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

Prompto holds Gladio’s gaze for only a moment longer, then turns away from them and walks out the door.

“I ran after him once, I ain’t doing it again,” he hears Gladio say, reminding Prompto why he never wanted to come back.

He makes it past the main doors before Ignis catches up with him, looking somber in the evening light.

Prompto keeps going until he’s at the bottom of the stairs, pausing only to let Ignis say whatever it is he has in mind.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and the pressure builds in his spine at the unspoken question. There’s a plea in Ignis’ presence, but Prompto isn’t ready to listen to it. Instead, he waits, challenging the eternal patience Ignis is known for.

Rather, what he gets is a resigned tone that makes him crumble. “I will get a Glaive to escort you out of the city if you’d like.”

Prompto stands there, on the same steps where he and Noctis said their goodbyes. It feels like an ending all over again, and maybe that’s why he came all this way. To put an end to it all.

“Anyone leaving Insomnia has to drive by Hammerhead,” Prompto says, fashioning excuses. He turns and flashes a smile Ignis can’t see, and so he laughs for his sake. “I’ll be your guard. Keep my feelers out for any nasty that might come my way.”

Ignis is unmoved, nodding his head in agreement. “Whatever serves you best.”

“We’ll find him.”

“I know we will.”

“I’ll, uh, keep you posted.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ignis says. “We’ve moved past apologies.”

Prompto looks up at the empty courtyard. “Onto what?”

“I’m uncertain as to what, but apologies do nothing but fall on deaf ears. When have we ever been the kind for that sort of thing?”

Prompto sees his point. Not even at the end of a prank gone wrong were apologies spoken. “I feel like I have a lot to apologize for.”

“Then that, my friend, is entirely on you.” Ignis turns his head towards the doors before walking to them, conversation done. “Wait here until I find you an escort.”

Prompto stands there, heart in his throat. He can count the number of times he’s heard Ignis ever sound angry at him, and he hates it. It makes his blood run cold, like he’s wronged one of the few good things in this world.

It takes a solid hour for a Glaive to finally exit the Citadel, and it’s the same woman who had waited with Libertus for the debriefing. She looks thoroughly pissed but says nothing as she jerks her head for him to follow her.

They take one of the few cars in the lot, and Prompto opts to sit in the backseat.

The drive feels longer than the walk he made getting in, stretching on in awkward silence as he watches neon lights and billboards zoom by through the window.

“You grew out your hair,” he chances saying, finally putting two and two together. It’s been years, but it’s her silence that confirms her identity. She doesn’t answer. “Wasn’t aware you’d survived past that night.”

“Wasn’t aware you survived either given you vanished without a trace.”

“I had things to do.”

Skie glances at him through the rearview mirror, unconvinced. “Mighty important things if it meant leaving your friends behind.”

Prompto bristles. “You didn’t talk at all the last time I saw you.”

“Would you rather I be less talkative? Because you were the one that started this conversation by creepily pointing out the length of my hair.”

Cheeks warm, Prompto crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at his dirty boots. “You saw him when he woke up.” He bounces his leg, vaguely remembering the questions he wanted to ask all those years ago. “You set foot on the Umbral Isle of Angelguard.”

“I don’t know who started that silly rumor, but no, I didn’t. None of us did,” she says. “What makes you think some lowly Glaives would be allowed to witness the True King’s awakening? It’s not like it was marked on the calendar, either.”

“Huh.” A lot of stories have been born since the nights began to grow longer. Trying to discern between fact and fiction is an everyday occurrence, one he assumes would be easier to clarify had he stuck around long enough to learn the truths. “Talking about rumors…Trash talking much?”

“Gossip is gossip,” she says with a shrug. “You hear things when you spend most of your time patrolling the Crown City’s base of operation.”

“Gonna rip me a new one for leaving?”

Skie briefly looks at him again, rolling her eyes when Prompto momentarily meets them. “I know it’s hard to move on. From everything. Mistakes, good times, you name it. But if there’s anything living as a Glaive has taught me is that some things are worth suffering for.”

Prompto smiles to himself. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

It’s when they’re nearing Hammerhead that she speaks again, tapping her gloved hand over the steering wheel. “For someone who keeps to himself, it’s easy to see how much of a confidant Ignis considers you to be. Personally, being there to see you three fight alongside the king, I can’t really imagine why you would choose to go your separate ways.”

Prompto decides to stare out the window.

He remembers those final hours spent between Kingsglaive HQ and rummaging through the remains of their city in flames, trying so desperately to make the best out of their dreadful situation.

She, along with every other Glaive who had made it that far, had seemed so hopeless. They all had been until Noctis trudged right back into their lives with the light they all needed to fight another day.

“Not to overstep my boundaries but, I wouldn’t be joking if I said those two care about you. I’m all for people doing what they have to do in the wake of the end of the world, but a reminder that you’re not truly alone is nice every once in a while.”

“Pretty deep given we’ve only met, what, twice?”

“Take the damn advice, Argentum.” Skie pulls into the garage and leaves the engine idling. “I lost everything I ever held dear. Family, friends, comrades. You still have people who care for you, people who are alive. What are you gonna do if one day you wake up and they aren’t there anymore?”

Prompto fumbles with the car door and shoves it open, stumbling out into the cool night. “Thanks for the ride,” he says, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave.

Following him out, Skie salutes him, properly, and pins a card to the gas pump. “If you ever need a ride back to the Crown City, give me a call. Any leads, I’m sure Ignis will inform the Captain ASAP.” She sets a foot in the car but stops once more, elbow on the hood and pointing at him. “Or, you know, if you’d ever want your ass kicked again.”

Prompto snorts, turning only to point right back at her, faking bravado as best he can. “Hey, I beat you twice before you ever got the upper hand.”

“Keep telling yourself that. If it makes you feel any better, I also beat your friends.” And with that, she’s gone, the small black car vanishing into the night.

***

Two weeks of radio silence and Prompto is elbow deep in grease, working the back orders Cid has had lying about for the last couple of months. He loses track of how many weapons he upgrades and modifies, all the while listening for any news from either Longwythe or Insomnia. Both are quiet.

Neither Cindy nor Cid mention anything about his time away, or ask if he plans on heading out again. They leave him to his silence, and he hates that things had started looking up before it all came crashing down again.

Visiting the tomb had lifted years of silent grieving off his shoulders only to slam the weight of Eos back down on him.

He can’t stop thinking of the Royal Tomb near Costlemark, the one hunters were dispatched to search after it had been ransacked by daemons. Prompto texted it to Ignis once he recalled that specific area, and Ignis’ reply was short and to the point. _We won’t dismiss anyone or anything._

Noctis’ weapon remained untouched, and the knowledge of that fact gives Prompto nightmares.

He hasn’t seen Pryna since leaving Insomnia.

And he’s run away, again.

He puts down the screwdriver and hides his face in his palms, cursing every sorry decision he continues to make.

It isn’t long until he’s calling it a night, putting his tools away and closing down the shop. The night is a cool one, most everyone has turned in, with the exception of the person sitting outside of his caravan.

Prompto slows his stride until he recognizes the hulk of a man as Gladio, tapping away at his phone as he sits by the caravan door.

“Hey,” Prompto says, offering a weak wave.

“Sup,” Gladio replies, putting the phone down and running a hand through his long hair. He leans back, looking up at Prompto with a blank face that slowly melts into something unreadable. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” Prompto jokes, doing as he’s told as casually as possible. He rests a foot on his knee and lets out a slow breath, watching Takka close down the diner through the windows.

“It’s a depressing thought, I know. But you gotta let me go sometime.”

Prompto laughs, finally risking a good look at Gladio. There’s the tiniest smile on his lips, and he can see his walls coming down brick by brick.

“What brings you out here, Big Guy?”

“Wanted to see how you were doing. Had us all a little worried after you stormed out of the Citadel. Iggy won’t admit to it, but he is.”

Prompto looks to the ground, the seed of guilt now in full bloom. “Thought you said you were done running after me.”

“I am. That’s why I let you walk over to me just now.”

Shaking his head, Prompto cannot believe what he’s hearing. “Aren’t you angry at me?”

“Angry? Frickin’ pissed would be more accurate,” Gladio says, words gruff as he shifts in his chair. But he sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Mostly I came to bitch about you running away again.”

Prompto sniffs. “But.”

“But,” Gladio concedes, “on the drive over I realized that you and I aren’t much different.”

“You mean we’re both buff and handsome?”

“I mean that I also ran away.”

Prompto bites his tongue, curious as to what he has to say. For all his macho exterior Gladio has never shied away from giving voice to his thoughts, regardless of what they were. He is surprisingly gentle given his tendency for tough love.

“You gonna listen to me?”

“I’m all ears.”

Gladio harrumphs. “You weren’t the only one who lost something the day Noct died.” He looks over at Prompto, lips pressed into a thin line. “Seeing you walk away felt like you were abandoning us, too. Like it was all for nothing.”

Prompto turns away from him, the burning in his eyes making him grumble under his breath. He went from barely crying to crying at least once a day since first leaving Hammerhead. It’s as if his emotions were once again stirred awake after a long hibernation. He succeeds at keeping them in check, if only for the time being.

“I held that over your head for a long time,” Gladio continues, “went as far as blaming everything on you.” He clears his throat. “But I ran away as well. I left Iggy behind to go kill whatever was left, claiming it was for the sake of the citizens of Lucis, for the sake of my honor."

“Ignoring it all gets easy after a bit of practice,” Prompto says, thinking of his first couple of months at Hammerhead.

Gladio hums in agreement. “What’s a shield with nothing to protect?”

Prompto’s smile is genuine in the fact that it isn’t. He can relate on a level beyond that of his comprehension to what Gladio is saying. “Think this would have been any easier had we stuck together?”

“Maybe. What’s done is done and there’s nothing to be done about that.”

“Ignis stayed in Insomnia,” Prompto says, letting the realization of what he’s about to say sink in. “He stayed in case we ever decided to come back home.”

Gladio is silent for a long moment, and Prompto watches him turn his head skyward. “Think he prefers it? Being surrounded by things that remind him of us?”

He remembers the stories they would share on Friday nights after school, of how Ignis would trail behind Noctis like a guard in civilian clothing. Of how Ignis had been put in charge of caring for Noctis when he was just a little boy.

If anybody lost their meaning that day, it was Ignis.

And here he was, here they both were, feeling sorry for themselves.

“I feel like such a jackass,” Prompto says with a groan.

Gladio scratches at his beard, crosses his arms, and then uncrosses them. He keeps fidgeting in his seat as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “You are, but also, same here.”

“We fucked up.”

“Big time.” Gladio huffs out a quiet laugh, one that sounds a lot like a compromise. “I don’t think it’s too late to fix things.”

Prompto nods his head, resigning himself to the reality that this is as good as it’s going to get. “Did Iggy put you up to this?”

“He might have recommended I patch things up with you. Everything else was all me, baby.”

“In which case, I’ll _think_ about accepting your apology.”

“This wasn’t an apology.”

“Oh, no, no, this totally sounded like an apology. I don’t care what you say to convince me otherwise.”

Gladio flips him off, but all Prompto can do is laugh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your butts.

The day feels off.

Despite the crystalline blue of the sky overhead and the sunny disposition of everyone who greets him that morning, something feels off kilter.

Cindy tips her hat at him before returning to the truck she’s working on, elbow deep in engine oil.

Cid stands by the side of the road, arms folded over his chest as he stares off at the arid Weaverwilds across the road. His gray hair is tucked safely under his cap from the wind that picks up, kicking up dirt all around them.

Prompto approaches him with an extra cup of coffee and hands it over.

“Shirt looks good on ya’,” Cid says.

“I’ve been wearing the same shirt for months now but thanks for noticing.” It’s the standard yellow t-shirt they all wear at the garage, the Hammerhead logo emblazoned across the front. He, of course, cut off the sleeves, but other than that not much is different.

Cid takes a sip of his coffee and nods. “Saw one of your friends leave before sun-up.”

“I’m old enough to have friends over,” Prompto jokes, warming up his hands with his own steaming mug.

“You didn’t go with him.”

“He was just visiting.”

“Don’t be a fool, son,” Cid snaps, staring right through him with the intensity of a man who knows too much, who has seen more than any person deserves to witness. “This here ain’t no place for you.”

Prompto blinks down at him, taken aback by the sudden outburst. “Where’s this coming from all of a sudden? It’s been years and now you’re telling me to get off my ass?”

Cid vaguely gestures towards the sky, at nothing in particular but more of the same blue that goes on for miles. “Been on Eos long enough to know this sort of thing. Reggie called me a coot for it, but I can feel it in the air.”

“We already survived the end of the world, I think we can handle a storm.” At least, he hopes it’s a storm. He can’t see anything over the horizon but Liede has been known to host the freak thunderstorm every once in a while.

But he can’t help but feel that the old man is right to some unsettling extent.

Something is lingering in the back of his head, urging him to do anything to rid of the stifling pressure that has settled between his shoulder blades. It isn’t unlike anxiety, an invisible presence twisting the air around him with the warning of something about to happen.

A tangible sense of foreboding.

“You best head on back to the Crown City,” Cid says, turning around and waving him off. “This place ain’t meant for city folk like you.”

Prompto backs away from him, perturbed by the sudden onslaught. He makes a beeline for Cindy, intent on asking her if Cid is feeling okay, but the vibration of his phone in his pocket stops him halfway.

He doesn’t recognize the number, but the message is urgent enough to get him sprinting into action.

“I’m taking the bike!” he shouts in the general direction of the truck. He doesn’t stop to check if anyone’s heard him as he runs into the shop.

He struggles to remove the tarp in his hurry, accidentally tangling it around his boots as he casts it aside. It takes him a solid minute of frantic searching to find the keys, which are hanging along with every other set they own.

All he hears is his own blood pumping in his ears as he kicks up the stand and rolls it out of the garage, hands sweaty as he slips on his gloves.

It doesn’t cross his mind to text back and ask for clarification, or even demand to know who sent the message. All Prompto knows is that he’s needed at the Citadel, and quick.

He mounts the bike and turns the ignition in one swift movement, and before anyone can say otherwise, he’s zipping down the road, pushing the old girl past her limits in his haste.

The wind is razor sharp, freezing cold as he crosses the checkpoint, the subtle crackle of electricity pushing him on with the promise of an oncoming storm.

He decreases his speed until he’s coasting along the bridge, dodging cars entering the city.

Clouds are beginning to gather overhead, flashes of lightning going off in the corner of his eyes.

Nothing seems amiss as he illegally rides between cars and takes the emergency lane once traffic becomes too heavy.

The odd umbrella is already propped open by the time the first raindrops darken the asphalt.

Uncaring of security he parks the bike haphazardly beside the other cars in the lot and makes for the stairway. He briefly considers calling Ignis or Gladio but his feet move him like a man possessed.

The unknowns, the off feeling since waking reminds him of the day he was asked to come to Hammerhead over five years ago.

Prompto runs up to the building and pushes open the doors, where he’s met with nothing but emptiness.

It’s still early morning, the sun having broken over the horizon not two hours ago.

The wind shuts the doors behind him the further he walks into the main lobby, confused and lost as he looks around him, at the rich black marble and gold trimmings that rise around him like the palace it is. Unlike the rest of his friends, the Citadel will never be a familiar place.

He comes close to calling out to anyone who may be in the building but stops himself just then, reminded of another time when he was alone in an unfamiliar place. He spins around, terrified that the man will materialize behind him, laughing at Prompto’s misfortune.

But he’s not there. He will never be there. Noctis made sure Ardyn would never walk Eos again.

Instead, Prompto takes a brief moment to calm his nerves. There’s no need to be jumpy. There’s no impending danger lurking in opulent corners. No immediate threat to merit him sprinting into action.

At the center of the lobby, he considers his three options. The middle hallway will lead him to the throne room, a place he rather never wander into again. The left hallway will lead him, somewhat, to the meeting room he and Ignis convened in with the Glaives. The right hallway, he has no idea.

_Always start with the left. If that’s a dead end, then work your way over._

Those had been Noctis’ words on more than one occasion when faced with multiple entryways. It always worked. Not the fastest way to go about places, but it prevented them from getting lost multiple times.

Mind made up, Prompto makes for the left hallway until something in the far right hallway catches his eyes.

A flash of white and a hint of yellow.

Prompto can feel his heart seize in his chest for only a moment, rethinking his route.

Carefully peeking down the path, he sees Pryna waiting for him, doing her twirl that usually means she intends for him to follow.

He’s given no time to assess the situation before she runs off, and Prompto gives chase.

His boots slip over the polished floors but he pushes on, blindly taking turns and narrowly avoiding statues. He doesn’t give up his pursuit even when he’s lost sight of her, hands shaking for an answer to whatever is going on.

Prompto is tired of this wild chase he continues to challenge himself to, looking for answers he might never find, lost in the dark in a world filled with light. Running after phantom dogs and the scent of flowers he’s never smelled before. Reaching for a dream laid to rest years ago.

He runs faster, harder, until his lungs burn from exertion.

 _There must be something at the end of this hall._ There must be something at the end of the endless tunnel he is constantly running down, desperate to find a place he can rest.

Prompto skids to a stop, heaving for air as he rests his hands on his knees. Sweat beads heavily along his temples, inside of his gloves, but as unpleasant as that is, something else gives him pause.

He looks behind him, down the hallway he was just running through and notices a single open door.

Stretching up and sucking in air, he makes his way back, hoping to find someone willing to tell him what in the name of the Six is going on.

At first glance, the room looks empty.

Furniture is scarce if neatly arranged, nothing worth talking about. What really catches Prompto’s eye are the long white curtains that billow across the room, cascading over everything within their reach.

He steps inside if only to decipher what it is they’re hiding.

Sunlight breaks through the clouds, casting its golden glow across the expanse of the room. Beyond the windows, Insomnia gleams like the gem it once was under the rule of her king, within the protection of her Walls.

Prompto’s attention falls on the wheelchair half a room in front of him. Out of place compared to everything around it.

The squeak of his boot against the marble floor causes movement, confirming that someone is, in fact, sitting in it.

“Uh, hey. Hi. Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping anyone here might help me out.”

The person sitting in the chair, back to him, snorts. The sound is so familiar Prompto thinks he’s imagined it.

Frail hands turn the chair around, and it takes Prompto a second too long to properly take in who it is he’s seeing.

From under a mess of black hair peek out a pair of eyes so blue no gems could ever truly compare.

Suddenly, there isn’t enough air in the room to properly fill Prompto’s lungs. No rhyme or reason to help him make sense of what his eyes are showing him.

“Between you and me,” Noctis says, “I really hope someone shows up and starts giving me some damn answers.”

The sound of his voice kick-starts Prompto’s heart, loud and clear and nothing like his dreams, nothing like the ghostly apparition in the middle of the night.

His chest heaves, constricts and expands all in one go, and Prompto feels both faint and flighty. Like the world around him is about to implode, or like he’s about to drop dead.

“Fuck,” is about all that he can say as his feet drag him forward. “Oh, _fuck._ ”

The sob that explodes out of him has him crashing to his knees, hands frantically gripping at the fabric of Noctis’ pants.

He cries like a child, broken and hopeless and unconcerned of the world around him. Uncontrollable hiccups leave his shoulders shaking, body trembling from an ache too tightly contained for too long. He can feel the ball of lead that has been sitting in his stomach for years come undone, bleeding out of him as he breathes in the scent of trees and lakes and leather.

Prompto cries until he can do nothing but convulsively gasp, chest cramping as he rests his head on Noctis’ lap. Noctis, who continues to hesitantly card his fingers through Prompto’s hair in order to help calm him.

Time cannot be measured as he kneels there, clinging to his friend like his life depends on it. He doesn’t want to think about the how or the why, fearing that he will not like the answers he receives.

All that matters is that Noctis is right here, right now, and Prompto can reach out and touch his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello! Early update cause I'll be off on vacation first thing tomorrow morning and I'm unsure whether or not I'll have wifi at our hotel. (It's 2018, you would THINK they do but hey.) Happy Tuesday! Enjoy the rest of the week as well as this chapter. ~

An hour later finds Prompto wrapped in a blanket, sitting cross-legged on one of the couches with a cup of hot tea seeping life back into his hands. He’s staring absently at the swirl of steam that dances above the milky drink, deciding that it’s a pretty accurate depiction of how he’s feeling right about now.

Unbound. Airy. Shapeless.

Gladio stands beside the doorway, gaze on the woodwork carved above Prompto’s head. He hasn’t said a single word, features locked in a frozen façade of mistrust.

As for Ignis, he paces back and forth, potentially wearing a hole into the fancy carpet beneath his feet. He’s thinking long and hard, torn between two emotions he’s trying and failing to keep contained under a look of professional detachment.

Noctis, on the other hand, keeps stealing glances at them whenever he isn’t blankly staring down at his hands.

The air around them is stiff, charged with unspoken words and the desire for comfort.

Prompto takes a drink from his tea and makes a face. Tea was never his favorite, but it serves its purpose. “Someone say something before I lose my mind,” he says, resting the cup on his lap, “like how long ago you found him and why am I just finding out?” He directs a miserable look at Gladio, who pointedly looks away.

“Gladio and I only learned about it this morning,” Ignis says, never once halting his pacing. “The Glaive has its protocols. They wanted to make sure this wasn’t some twisted joke.”

“How _do_ we know that isn’t what this is?” Gladio demands, eyes narrowing in Ignis’ direction.

“Because I’m sitting right here and you can just ask,” Noctis says, head rolling back in exasperation.

“Pardon our hesitance, Majesty. But you understand our disbelief isn’t misplaced.”

“I’d be disappointed in you guys if you weren’t doubtful.”

Prompto squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing. To hear him speak again is overwhelming, even if the multitude of questions keeps him from basking in the unbridled joy he feels thrashing in his chest.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he says.

Noctis looks up at Prompto, thinking for a moment. “Just… waking up. Like I had been asleep and a noise woke me. Next thing I know there’s a whole bunch of people shining lights in my eyes and poking my arm.” He looks down at his right arm before bending it, as if assessing the damage.

Placing the cup down on the coffee table in front of him, Prompto drops his feet onto it with a loud thud, startling them all into stillness. “The Astrals need to stop fucking with us,” he announces, too loudly to seem casual.

“Maybe next time I’ll only be gone for two and a half years,” Noctis says, but shuts his mouth when they all turn to him with grim glares. “Oh, sure, Specs can joke about being blind but I can’t crack a joke about dying.”

“Five years is a long time,” Gladio says. There’s something in the way he says it, not entirely a reprimand, but a statement of mourning that makes the hair at Prompto’s nape stand on end.

“You’ve no idea what it was like,” Ignis quietly adds.

Noctis doesn’t reply as he watches them intently. Prompto watches him back, taking in the way he twitches, fingers uncertain of what to do, minuscule shifts that are so undeniably _Noct_ that every doubt is discarded then and there.

“This was different from being in the Crystal,” he says, just as quietly, as if afraid to startle them. “At Angelguard I _knew_ what was happening. As if I had been aware of everything at every second. This time it was just a cut to black before I’m being shaken awake by strangers.”

“None of this makes any sense,” Prompto says, nothing but a mumble in the spacious room. He gets up, agitated, and flexes his fingers. “I need some air.”

He doesn’t look back as he exits the room, conflicted by the turn of events. He can’t keep up with every blow the gods continue to throw at him, making the ground beneath his feet less steady the further he walks.

Part of him wants to do nothing but collapse onto Noctis, hold him for days until he’s certain that he is truly real and not a figment of his exhausted imagination. That this isn’t some awful hoax meant to destroy them. All of which are easier to believe as opposed to the Astrals just giving the guy a second chance at life. That seems too nice of them.

Prompto slams a fist against a nondescript wall after five minutes of aimless walking. He can’t find his way out, or at least a balcony. He’s lost, just as he’s been for the past several years. Helplessly lost and uncertain if his lifeline is truly there to save him or trick him further out to sea.

A hand closes around his fist and he startles, eases back when Gladio extends his fingers to inspect for damage.

“I ain’t made out of paper, Big Guy.”

“Easy to forget you’re not.” He applies pressure to every knuckle, making Prompto wince before pulling away. “We’re all upset. No need to mess up your hands over it.”

Gladio guides him three hallways down and out into a private balcony that looms over the empty tomb. It’s only then that Prompto realizes the location. It used to be a pond.

“I know it’s him,” Prompto finally says, wrapping his arms around himself as he looks down at the garden turned public park.

“Prompto—”

“Just because he can’t tell the difference between me and an imposter doesn’t mean I can’t,” he spits out, angrier than expected. “All you have to do is _look at him_ , really look at him and you’ll know what I mean.”

Hands on the railing, Gladio leans against it. He looks up at the sun, narrowing his eyes when it proves too bright to stare at. “I believe you.”

“Good.”

“But you don’t believe you.”

Prompto bites his bottom lip. “I don’t trust it. We got him back after ten years so that he could die. What’s gonna happen now, huh? Is he going to die again? This time we can keep him for three whole days rather than just two. Lucky us, yeah?”

“Iggy’s trying to reach Talcott, see if there’s anything they missed about the prophecy.”

Prompto scoffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He’s angry. Angrier than he’s been in a very long time and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s all the worse to see Gladio so calm and composed while he throws a fit like some teenager.

He grips the railing for dear life, trying to think happy thoughts to keep him from losing his cool. It doesn’t help much, but Gladio’s hand at the center of his back does wonders to ground him. It’s a firm yet surprisingly gentle touch for Gladio, but Prompto takes it without question. He’s frayed beyond recognition and every little thing helps.

“I don’t know what to do,” Prompto says.

Gladio sighs, slipping his hand up to rest it on the back of Prompto’s neck. “Looks to me like you need some stress relief.”

Prompto flinches when Gladio squeezes the tender bit between his neck and shoulder, sending jolts of pain racing to his spine. “Yeah, nope, can do without, thanks.” Regardless, the corner of his mouth twists up into an unwilling smirk at the suggestiveness of Gladio’s tone. “You’re something else.”

“Anything for a friend.”

“Friends don’t proposition friends.”

“Rich coming from the guy who humped my leg.”

Prompto’s face grows hot. “That was one time! And it was an accident.”

Gladio laughs, smacking him on the back hard enough to rearrange some organs. “Not like you were the only one.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s ‘cause you’re so irresistible.”

“Damn right, I am.”

Prompto laughs despite himself. The occasional humping might occur when sleeping in close quarters with three other guys, especially with the constant of morning wood. What had been awkward at first became the norm, and none of them really ever went out of the way to hide it as they stumbled their way out of the tent.

Gladio is a human furnace, so it’s only instinctual to gravitate towards him during sleep.

He misses the days when this was normal. The playful pushing and pulling they did, Gladio’s libido being on display for all of them roll their eyes at, and Ignis’ adventurous exploits whenever things go out of hand. Prompto misses the open affection, the casual contact without inhibitions.

“Things were simple back then,” Gladio says as if reading his mind.

Prompto can’t help but agree.

***

It’s a matter of hours before Prompto can bring himself to walk into the room again, and even then he hesitates just outside the door when he finds Ignis less than composed.

He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, head in his hands as Noctis awkwardly sits by him, wheelchair askew to grant them more proximity. He’s saying something, and Ignis is nodding, and that’s all Prompto can bear to watch as he pulls himself away to give them privacy.

He’s once again faced with the reality that he hasn’t been the only one grieving. They were all in this together and without Noctis they all fell apart, unwilling to cling to what little they had left.

Prompto had always been different. Their relationship will always be one based on nothing but friendship, a connection made through mutual interests and being at the right place at the right time. While Ignis and Gladio, their entire lives revolved around Noctis since day one. It is their duty, their reason, their cause. They’re indispensable to him.

Some days he doesn’t like thinking about that.

But sometimes it serves him right to remember that he isn’t the only one who cares.

Back to the wall, Prompto slips down to the ground and sits there, listening to the silence that emits from the room behind him. He loses track of time, nearly dozing on various occasions to the sound of talking that eventually picks up. Ignis’ soft laughs and Noctis’ affronted complaints of something or another he doesn’t quite catch. Maybe food. He can’t really tell, but he doesn’t really care.

The hushed sound of speaking reminds him of nights spent together, huddled close under stars or creaking ceiling fans. The sound of Ignis and Gladio exchanging words Prompto doesn’t dare think about, too racy to talk about while fully awake. The mumbled protests of things Noctis didn’t want to do come morning – too early for this, too early for that.

It wraps him like a cocoon, almost lulling him to sleep if not for the hand gently shaking him awake.

“You can talk to him if you’d like,” Ignis says, soft enough to make Prompto smile drowsily before rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Ignis shuts the door behind him, leaving Prompto and Noctis alone in the room.

It feels different now, far more peaceful as opposed to the muted hostility the morning brought along with the revelation. The air is thick with melancholy as Prompto walks around the room, elated at not being alone.

“Nice outfit,” Noctis says, tone brimming with mischievous humor.

Prompto can’t help but grin, turning on his heels and striking a pose. “Right? Cindy keeps pointing out that yellow ain’t my color but, I mean, look at this.” He points to his shirt, grease stains and all. “I, personally, think I look bangin’.”

“You look like a chocobo who’s seen better days.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t pull off anything other than black.”

Noctis shakes his head. “You’re just jealous you don’t look as good as I do in black.”

“Probably,” Prompto says, the breath that escapes him settling him into place. “How you doing, Noct?”

“Better now that I know this isn’t some messed up dream. And that I got something hot in my stomach. Feels like I haven’t eaten in years.”

“Technically…”

“If I can’t make dead jokes, neither can you. As king that’s my new rule.”

Prompto laughs, light and airy as he finally approaches the spot Noctis has taken to. “Alright, your royal _ass-jesty_. Any other rules I should be aware of?”

“You’re not allowed to wear black ever again.”

“Only yellow?”

“Maybe blue,” he says, looking Prompto over and nodding appreciatively. “I think blue might be a good color on you.”

Prompto drops down onto the couch, staring unabashedly at the man sitting right in front of him. If not a dream, then Prompto must surely be dead. Just weeks ago he cried himself to sleep at the thought of never seeing him again, and now here they are. Breathing the same air. Sharing the same space.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

“At the end of the day, a picture’s just a piece of paper.”

Noctis’ lips part as if to speak, but he then presses them together and looks away.

Prompto takes in the wildness of his hair covering nearly half his face, and the ridiculous beard that has grown out of control. He gives Ignis twenty-four hours before he’s on him, giving him a well-deserved grooming session.

“Sounds weird coming from you,” Noctis eventually says, scratching his cheek.

“All they reminded me of was what I would never have again.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It’s been a very depressing five years, man, let me tell you.”

“I’m banning that, too.”

Prompto smiles but it’s shaky. He looks down to keep himself from crying again, this time from the sheer happiness of being able to have a conversation with his best friend.

“What’s with the wheelchair?”

“What’s with the Hammerhead gear? Cindy teaching you how to clean pipes?”

“Been working at the shop, mostly weapon modification. Helps keep my mind off things.”

Noctis reaches over and plucks the hat off his head, carelessly throwing it over his shoulder. “That’s better.”

Prompto runs both hands through his hair, perfectly aware that it must look like a right mess. “I need a haircut.”

“You and me both.” A mild gesture later and Noctis is asking, “How’s it between you and Cindy? Finally get lucky enough to land a date?”

Prompto leans back on the couch, hands together over his lap as he shakes his head. “We’re good,” he says, and he’s embarrassed at actually sounding shy. “We tried. Didn’t work. Better off as friends.”

Noctis raises an interested eyebrow. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“No, I think I do.”

“I’m being serious here.”

“So am I,” Noctis says, but it’s a somber statement. “I want to hear everything you have to say. Whatever it is. I want to hear it.”

Prompto clenches his jaw, hesitating before nodding his head. “Yeah. Okay, fine. You win. Just ‘cause I kinda like you.”

“Just kinda?”

Were he not in a wheelchair, Prompto would punch him.

In fact, he leans over and does so anyway, scuffing him on the shoulder.

“Nice save on the whole wheelchair conversation by the way,” Prompto says, leaning over the couch’s armrest. He pokes Noctis where he mock-punched him, grins when his hand gets swatted away.

“Specs is being overdramatic. He thinks it’s no good to be too vertical after spending so long horizontally.”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“More like a pain in the back.” Noctis rolls his shoulders, stretching out as best he can without getting up from the chair. “I’ll be up and about in no time.”

Prompto’s smile feels wrong on his face as he looks down to the blanket strewn over Noctis’ lap.

Whatever the true reason is, he lets it slide. For now, he can live with the fact that they’re here, talking and laughing like the world decided to give them a well-deserved break.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, I apologize for the late update. Being on vacation for a couple of days meant I had a tone of backlogged work that needed to get done and time (and energy) escaped me. But here it is! I like to think of this chapter as the beginning of "phase two" of this fic. 
> 
> I would also like to apologize for slacking on replying to everyone's amazing reviews! I just wanted y'all to know that I appreciate each and every one of you as well as every lovely word that fills me with newfound life! ❤

White sheets rest over every surface of the forgotten rooms within the Citadel’s twentieth floor, like stoic ghosts untouched by time. They stand like sentinels watching over priceless treasures forsaken in the aftermath of a war thought lost, unyielding to the thieving hands of ruin. Frozen like the tail end of a fleeting memory, bittersweet and kind.

Dust kicks up when the glass doors are opened, letting in Insomnia’s light.

Noctis’ sigh when Prompto wheels him into the living quarters has them all stand in silence for only a moment. Out of respect or nostalgia, they aren’t quite sure.

Prompto, for one, had never stepped foot in the royal suites. The same cannot be said for Gladio and Ignis who called the Citadel their home away from home. Mostly a workplace, but they had chased Noctis down these halls on more than one occasion, he’s sure.

Underneath these sheets are the belongings of the late King Regis. With his heir presumed dead until long after Insomnia’s fall, there had been no one to go through any of the things left behind.

Everything had happened so fast it’s hard to believe it’s been over fifteen years.

“We’ll go through these as time permits,” Ignis announces, moving into the room with a determined stride. “Given as you won’t be seeing much outside of these rooms until the time is right.”

“Fun,” Noctis says. “Well, make yourselves at home.”

Gladio begins taking down sheets without preamble, revealing furniture Prompto wouldn’t even dream sitting on. They’re in a reception area, with desks and lounges and an assortment of peculiar art pieces depicting the gods of Eos. The paintings that hang from the marble walls are obscure at best, convoluted at worst.

The rug beneath their feet is of a foreign design, almost rustic, and Prompto swears he’s seen the pattern in a book back in school.

By all means, it’s as stately as any palace would be. Not unlike the movies or video games they used to play.

Feeling at home is going to be difficult given his plebe status.

To the left of the main area is a separate set of rooms, less opulent and far more cluttered with boxes Prompto recognizes. His name is doodled on one of them, along with poorly drawn mascots and cartoon characters he swore he’d get tattooed one day.

They’re the boxes from Noctis’ old apartment and he can bet he’d find his old school uniform stuffed in one of them.

Prompto carefully threads through the area, taking stock of what he sees and wondering if any of it could be of use. There’s a mattress propped up against a wall, and a dismounted bed frame neatly stacked on the floor.

An open shoe box rests on the windowsill, along with a weathered notebook leaning against it. He doesn’t have to peek inside to know what it’s filled with. The scattering of pens and loose paper, dried flower petals that were once blue.

These are the only remnants of a romance that never truly was, and Prompto’s heart hurts. For Noctis, for Luna, and for everything that went wrong but shouldn’t have. He wonders if there would have been a way to change the outcome, to alter the path that led them all here, but it wouldn’t be the first or last time he’d give it thought.

In the blur of dark colors, Prompto spots a small ball of yellow, and he carefully makes his way over to it. Reaching into the open box, he scoffs at the offensive plush covered in dust.

“I thought I’d lost this.”

“You very rudely chucked it at my head after the carnival,” Noctis says from just beyond the door to his old room, the wheelchair keeping him from going any further.

“Did not.”

“You were angry at me. You said, and I quote, _I never want to talk to you or your ugly face ever again_.”

Prompto looks down at the toy, brows furrowed. “I don’t remember that.”

“I do. Not what you were upset about, but that you were upset.”

“You kept it.”

“Well, yeah. Damn game was rigged. Took me forever to win it.”

“Doesn’t even look like a real chocobo.”

“But you wanted it.”

“So you won it for me,” Prompto says. He does remember, and now that he does, he wishes he didn’t. Pure hormonal jealousy is what made him storm off, and he’s too embarrassed to even think about it.

The look on Noctis’ face says he knows exactly why Prompto threw it at him.

Prompto drops the toy back into the box and looks around the room, hands on his hips. Time for a subject change. “This was your room, huh?”

“Needs a lot of work, but I’m sure it’s livable.”

“What? Not taking the kingly suite?”

“That’s dad’s room,” he says. “It’d be weird.”

Prompto looks at him, momentarily torn between speaking his mind and not. Regardless of current states of being, Noctis is barely waking up from yet another long slumber. It’s strange to see him in sweatpants and a simple shirt, wheelchair-ridden and unshaved, going through family belongings, looking every last bit as the prince who road-tripped across his kingdom.

“You’re the king now,” Prompto says as if it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

Noctis looks unmoved. Ever so stubborn. “Think that game console still works?”

Prompto looks behind him, seeing none in sight. “We can always plug it in and check it out.”

***

“You can’t just keep him in here forever,” Aranea gripes, agitatedly waving a hand over her head. “You needed leverage, you’ve got it.”

“He’s barely ready,” Ignis replies, plucking the mug of coffee from her other hand as due punishment. “The man can barely walk, let alone address an entire kingdom.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“He is not ready,” he repeats, slowly and carefully, words curling like a threat. “As his advisor, it is ultimately my call.”

“You’re risking anarchy.”

“Lucis handled itself for five years without a king.”

“How much longer until they demand a definitive answer? A year? Another decade?”

“Aranea—”

“Council or not, I know my damn way through politics and what you’re doing isn’t winning anyone any favors.”

There’s a beat of silence, then murmured words neither of them can decipher.

Gladio and Prompto pretend they don’t see Aranea as she turns and closes the door to the study, cutting them off from the rest of the conversation.

“This is going better than I expected,” Prompto says from where he’s lying on the longue, feet swinging over the armrest.

“I’d rather be asleep than listen to this.”

“Dude, you were dead for five years. That’s like… the most epic of naps.”

Noctis glares at him before returning to the massive log in front of him. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning loud enough to border on the dramatic.

From his perch by the window, Gladio snorts. “A bright future awaits us.”

Prompto grins at his phone, going through his gallery and clearing out the shittier pictures that mostly compose of warped shots of Insomnia’s skyline. He doesn’t have much of them on it, mostly out of a newfound fear of losing something dear.

It’s been a week now, and things are more or less a very loose definition of normal.

No questions have been answered.

Ignis has slammed an overwhelming amount of documents for Noctis to go through in the vague hope of sorting something out. However, Ignis also refuses to even let the public know about the king’s miraculous rising. The Kingsglaive are getting restless, only the inner circles knowing the full extent of the situation, and the council sniffs something misplaced in the air.

It’s a difficult situation with no protocol to follow, and bless Ignis for trying his hardest to see a silver lining. But as is, Noctis is a constant ball of fatigue that ends up curling in on himself whenever it all becomes too much. Even Gladio, whose frustration is on display for all to see, is giving him space.

Prompto hates that they’re forced to choose between friendship and duty. Sure, Noctis is king, and sure he’s, by divine prophecy, the last of his line, chosen by the Crystal to purge the land from the Scourge of the Stars, and sure, he was gone inside said Crystal for ten years, set an immortal to eternal rest, died for five years, and then came back with no recollection as to how… but he is still their _friend_. The guy needs a damn break.

“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Prompto says, genuinely curious.

Ignis hasn’t shied away from laying it on thick, devoting countless hours to exposition on the current political fiasco and how he thinks it should be dealt with. But with the power divided eleven ways, it’s difficult to sway matters strictly in his direction. Having a king back in play changes the entire game, but reintroducing a monarch at this point in time is a double-edged sword.

For starters, the people of Lucis believe they no longer need a reigning family. Without the threat of daemons or vanishing viruses, what need do they have for a king who can only offer them protection? What the people want is a leader who can bring them prosperity and can maintain the fragile peace between the nations of Eos.

_“You can’t unify the entire world,”_ Ignis had said, perplexed that Noctis would even suggest such a _ludicrous_ idea. A noble aspiration, but a fantasy nonetheless.

Noctis had stared at him, oddly reserved, and didn’t mention it again.

Prompto wonders if that’s the last they’ve heard of Noctis’ hopes as ruler.

All that aside, he had listened in on conversations he probably shouldn’t have intruded in. Plenty of political babble that mostly flew over his head, arguments over how improbable or selfish some of the council’s ideas are.

And yet, here, Ignis feels the need to close the door between them.

It’s nearly an hour when they emerge from the study, and neither he, Gladio, nor Noctis have moved from their spots.

Aranea stalks across the room, only stopping when she reaches the exit. She faces the door, head tilted up in what looks like exasperation before turning to them with a scowl. “Three months. That’s all me and my men are giving you.”

“You mean my men,” Noctis refutes coolly, twirling a pen between his fingers.

“As far as you’re concerned, your majesty, you’re still dead to us until you decide to show that face of yours.”

She’s gone before any of them can process what it is she’s said.

“She’s right,” Ignis says, “though, she might have phrased it a bit curtly.”

“Given you’re the one that’s against me showing this face of mine, I bet.”

Ignis plops down beside Prompto, nearly landing on him were it not for Prompto’s quick reflexes. “Three months isn’t enough.”

“Do we need her men?” Prompto dares to ask.

“Niflheim’s forces have regrouped in the last year,” Gladio says without looking away from his book. “No one to tell if it’s a show of military force or a calculated demonstration of defense.”

Prompto shoots up, nearly making himself dizzy. “Wait, what?”

“The Empire has fared no better than Lucis since its downfall. There are rumors that its civilians are calling for an end to its martial law, but one can’t say for certain. They may either be preparing for the installation of a new government, or they’re making ready to reconquer debilitated territories.” Ignis crosses his arms, the image of a tactician carefully plotting his next move.

“Accordo isn’t too happy with us either, but we already knew that,” Noctis says. He pages through his log, a finger gliding across lines. “With Altissia still out of commission, they’re the last on the list of potential threats.”

“The Kingsglaive isn’t enough to defend Lucis,” Prompto accurately summarizes.

“But they’re enough to defend Insomnia.” Noctis closes the log with a decisive thump. “Three months.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand how much ground must be covered in just ninety days.”

“Then we haul ass if we have to. I’m not risking an invasion. Not again.”

Ignis stands up and makes his way to the desk Noctis sits at. “You fail to see my point.”

“No, you seem to be under the impression that your point is more relevant than mine.”

“Noct,” Ignis groans, and one would think they were arguing over the importance of fishing lures instead of the fate of an entire kingdom. “This isn’t the time.”

“Gladio’s seen the Nif armies. How long do you think we have?”

“Not very, but if they see a weak king they will undoubtedly make haste.”

Prompto raises his hand. “Not to toot our own horn, but I’d be scared shitless if the guy we were gunning for came back from the fucking dead.”

“That’s not the point,” Ignis says, staring down at Noctis as if willing him to understand out of sheer force.

There’s something about the look, however, about the way that Noctis turns away from Ignis’ unseeing gaze, eyes pinched with frustration that has Prompto sitting up straighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gladio do the same.

He has seen Noctis and Ignis have wordless conversations before, but this almost feels like a threat. Or, worse, a plea.

“I don’t know what you two know, but you have two seconds before I start asking questions,” Gladio says, finally slipping off from his perch on the window and looming closer to them. He drops the book behind him and hovers near Prompto, who is feeling more and more betrayed by the second. “Well?”

Noctis still doesn’t look at them.

It’s Ignis who in turn wanders towards the window, instinctually gravitating towards the heat of the sun. “The wheelchair may have to remain longer than we had originally hoped,” he says.

Had Prompto not been staring at him, he would have missed the way Ignis presses his fingers to the scar over his left eye.

The unconscious action feels like taking a bullet to the side.

“How long?” Gladio asks, the words too big to properly fit in the room with them.

“I don’t know,” Noctis answers.

“What’s wrong with your legs?” Prompto ventures, mind going too fast in its hope to find an answer to the issue.

“There may be a myriad of causes,” Ignis says. “Lack of oxygen in death, for one.”

“Or, you know, taking a dozen or so weapons right through the chest. But that’s just my opinion on the matter.”

“Had it been a spinal injury a lot more of you would have been immobilized.”

“Same with a lack of oxygen.”

“Wait,” Prompto interjects, “it is just your legs.”

Noctis looks up at Prompto before pushing back from the desk.

They watch as, with hands on the edge of the desk, Noctis pulls himself up from the chair with relative ease. “Not like I can’t move,” he quips defensively, affronted at the mere idea of being coddled for a disability he clearly doesn’t have.

But they can all see past his bravado.

It’s in the way he furrows his brow, nearly imperceptibly, that gives away the pain he’s quietly enduring to demonstrate.

He takes two solid steps before Gladio is standing beside him, arm around his waist to keep him upright.

Painful to witness, Prompto refrains from making any more stupid comments. Instead, he asks, “Have you brought in any healers?” To which Noctis answers by wiggling his fingers.

There’s a slight static charge that shines blue before fading into nothingness, and the implications are devastating.

“Hardly functioning body, hardly functioning magic… hardly functioning me doesn’t make for a very good king, I guess.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, even while Gladio maneuvers Noctis to the longue.

“We need more than three months,” Ignis says.

“Three months is all we have.” Noctis leans his head back against the headrest, staring at the intricately carved ceiling. “We’re dealing with it.” An aborted sigh later, he adds, “I feel eight all over again.”

The statement triggers something in Ignis that has him turning his head towards Noctis, expression thoughtful.

“What is it?” Gladio says, picking up on it, too. He drops onto the lounge chair on the other side of Prompto, effectively pinning him between the two of them.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

They watch him go and Prompto wonders what it must be like in that head of his. Constantly on the go. Like a car with unlimited fuel just going on forever, refusing to give out even when its engine screams for a break.

And then there’s Noctis, trying his damnedest to fulfill his duty in his own stubborn way. It’s a stark difference from the socially awkward guy who was unwilling to take the throne, delaying his arrival to where he needed to be for the sake of a little more time with his friends.

Prompto guesses it’s unfair for him to assume Noctis wouldn’t mature when he’s been out for the count for almost half of his total lifespan up to date, but it’s still strange to see the fierce glint in his eye directed at something other than a fishing spot or a soft bed.

To see his friend’s ambitions stunted before they’ve even taken flight is cruel.

“What if I use lances instead of crutches? Think the Nifs will test their luck?”

Still, it’s nice to know that Noct is still Noct.

“Not if you attach sniper rifles to them.”

“I think you’re onto something.”

“You two are idiots.”

“Yeah, but we’re your idiots,” Prompto says, nudging Gladio’s side with his elbow.

“And Specs’.”

“Can’t forget about Igster.”

***

Dinner that evening is a great big ball of awkward.

Ignis suggested they unveiled the dining room. Which, as it stands, serves its purpose as the royal dining room. The formal dinners this room has hosted are many, usually hostile in nature, but not as hostile as Prompto’s reaction to Ignis’ idea.

They had been buttered up, to say the least, with the promise of hot food made by their favorite chef.

The full course meal stretches from table end to table end, a variety of plates each smelling as fantastic as the next. The presentation is gorgeous and Prompto wonders just how Ignis does it. The cooking he can understand, but the arrangement is a magic all on its own.

There is a Cup Noodles wedged somewhere on the table, and upon its discovery did it all go south.

“Out with it,” Noctis eventually demands, eyeing a platter of fries. “I haven’t seen this much greasy food on a single table since high school.”

“Let’s call it a belated celebration,” Ignis says.

“To Noct,” Prompto announces, dramatically raising his glass of water.

“To the king,” Gladio agrees.

Noctis shakes his head, poorly hiding a smile behind his fist as he too raises his drink. “To the four of us together again.” They drink to it before: “Okay, but really, what’s your deal.”

Ignis settles into his seat, back to the stained-glass windows as he tops off his glass of wine. Prompto fears it’ll spill before he abruptly stops and puts the bottle down on the table. “I hesitate to ruin the moment.”

“Too late for that, buddy.”

“I’m sure it’s already crossed your mind. Your injury.”

“The one the Oracle healed, yeah. Doesn’t mean I know why it’s unhealed now.”

“Magical reversal?” Prompto offers. He’s played enough video games to understand the basic mechanics of magic. More or less. “You know, like in RPGs. Usually one of the main characters gains something, like an ability, in exchange for something else. Maybe that was your equivalent exchange.”

“I feel like this is a small price to pay for leaving the afterlife.”

“We don’t know what’s coming,” Gladio warns. “The cost may go up.”

“I agree with Gladio. Whatever the reason, we must prepare ourselves.” Ignis takes a drink, his thumb caressing the bottom of his glass. “Were the Astrals truly behind this, all we can do is hope for the best.”

“Somehow, I don’t think they are,” Noctis says. “Waking up from the Crystal I was enlightened. It was gradual. This felt abrupt. Like a hiccup, almost.”

“Like something doesn’t know what it’s doing?” says Prompto.

Noctis nods his head. “Kind of.”

Curiosity lingers in the back of his mind, wanting to ask a dozen more questions but fearing the actual answers. Magic or not, royal lineage blessed with holy light or not, coming back from the dead just isn’t something people can do.

“I have a proposal.”

They all look to Ignis, who now has his hands firmly on the dining room chair. Lips pressed into a thin line, his expression is hesitant but resolute, a surefire sign that neither of them is going to like what he’s about to say.

“Well?” Gladio prompts after a moment of tense silence.

“Please hear me out before stating any opposition.” Slowly, they put their utensils down and listen. “We may have the technology we need to fully restore your health. With the right people, we can use this research to our advantage.”

There’s something to be said about Noctis’ newfound ability to remain perfectly composed in the face of stupid ideas. _Stupid ideas_ being Prompto’s thought process the moment he fully grasps what it is that Ignis is insinuating. For all their years together, this is potentially the worst suggestion Ignis has ever made.

“The right people,” Gladio carefully repeats, disbelieving his own ears.

“I’ll do it,” Prompto interrupts, pushing away his plate, appetite gone.

“Do what, exactly?”

“I’ll find a way to fix you,” he says, refusing to call his own words pleading. “Three months. I can deal with that.”

“Prompto—”

“I’m good at what I do. If I can take two completely unrelated weapons and make new ones, I can come up with something to help him walk.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“It’ll be sleek. Out of the way. Something you can wear underneath your clothes.”

Noctis rubs his temples, subtly shaking his head. “Prom.”

Prompto takes it as a lack of faith. “I’ll do it.”

“Prompto,” Ignis tries again, but Prompto’s already standing up, the heavy chair scraping the floor, ringing in his ears.

“I know we can’t blame all of Niflheim for the atrocities their government did, but Nif tech has done nothing but ruin lives,” he says, words wavering with each muttered syllable. “I know what you’re going to say and my answer’s gonna be that it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not underestimating your ability to create something functional, but medical advancements can be used for good.”

Prompto laughs disbelievingly, placing a hand on his hip to keep it from doing anything too stupid while the other cards through his hair. “Medical. Right. Genetics. You mean cellular modification and mutation through _cloning_.” He shrugs. “Yeah, I did my homework when everything went to shit. We don’t know what’s affecting Noct, we don’t even know if any of this would work!”

He stops, refocusing his thoughts when all he could see were the haunting shadows of horrors encountered on a snowy tundra.

He will not stand by and allow the sinewy evils of Niflheim’s twisted scientists lay claim to his friend.

Ignis and Gladio are staring at him, composed enough for their true thoughts to be unreadable.

Noctis, on the other hand, closes his eyes. “Can you do it in one?”

“What?”

“One month. Two tops.”

Prompto opens his mouth, almost stating that he’ll try, but Gladio once taught him that there is no try when it comes to the things that truly matter. Instead, Prompto nods his head, once. “One for a prototype. Two if you feel like making it fancy.”

The way Gladio’s mouth quirks up at the corner tells him he’s said the right thing.

Ignis cants his head, a gesture that he’s heard what Prompto has to say.

“You got the job,” Noctis says. “I’m sure I’ll be able to pay you handsomely.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some softness.

After it is all said and done, Noctis asks Prompto to wheel him to his room.

Hardly a special request given they’ve been taking turns since the suite became fully operational again.

Most of the artwork has been moved into storage, potentially pending auction. As for the furniture, Ignis has gone above and beyond seeing to their restoration. The set of rooms now shine with new life, greeting its new inhabitants after nearly two decades of emptiness.

Noctis’ room is once again what it used to be before their departure, albeit cleaner and better organized. The area is spacious, the bed too big for a single person. Hell, it’s too big for four people, even, but Prompto figures that’s a luxury afforded to royalty.

There’s a desk, several bookshelves, a flat screen television mounted on the wall complete with its outdated game console, and various other knickknacks are strewn about.

Across the double doors are more of the same floor-to-ceiling windows that seem to be a theme all over the Citadel. Prompto doesn’t mind them during the daytime. He's seen too much to be comfortable during the night, even with Insomnia’s light glowing around them like a halo.

He wonders how many people are currently looking up at the Citadel and what they’re thinking. If only they knew.

Paranoid by the thought, Prompto hastily crosses the room and closes the curtains. It takes him long enough for Noctis to transfer from the wheelchair to his bed, turning only to catch the tail end of him struggling to get one leg and then the other onto the mattress.

Prompto gives him a moment longer, pretending to focus on the curtain’s ties while Noctis curses under his breath at his inability to care for himself in the most basic way possible. He haphazardly wrestles off his clothing and slips into the suitable sleepwear that is neatly folded by his pillow.

It breaks his heart to see Noctis reduced to this when he’s always been a man constantly on the move. Like fluid, slipping through cracks he was never meant to fit through. The way he moved in battle, with agility and grace worthy of envy. Ignis would often call him a dancer, acutely attuned to what his hands can wield, what he can will into existence with just a thought. With or without magic, Noctis is someone who has to be seen to be believed.

He’s beautiful. He always has been, and even here, broken and misplaced, Prompto would shy away from his splendor.

“Need any help there?” he asks well after Noctis has settled down.

“Only if you want to tuck me in.”

“And here I thought you were a big boy.”

Noctis lets his head fall back onto his mountain of pillows, humming with pleasure upon contact. “At least I can appreciate the pillows.”

“Only the pillows? That whole bed looks like paradise on a frame.”

“It’s okay.” Arm stretched the farthest it can go, he pats the mattress. “Room enough for two.”

“You’re kidding me? More like eight.” Prompto sits on the chair by the bed instead, and it’s probably just as comfortable. In fact, it’s the most comfortable damn chair his ass has ever had the privilege to sit on.

He watches, quietly, as Noctis shuts his eyes.

Neither of them really talk, and Prompto would think he’s fallen asleep if not for the fact that he’s not snoring like a behemoth. Instead, he leans back in his chair and folds a leg over the other, taking a moment to truly admire the man in front of him.

Nothing short of a miracle.

“You think Lady Lunafreya had anything to do with this?” he asks barely above a whisper, just in case.

It takes a moment for Noctis to answer with a thoughtful sound. “I don’t think she has the power to. Even in the afterlife.”

“I mean more along the lines of her bartering for your life.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. It was just a thought.”

Prompto would. Prompto tried, on various occasions, to curse down the gods themselves for the sake of a deal. Of course, Prompto is nobody compared to someone like the Oracle.

His world is of a limited scope. He serves no other purpose but to live day by day and try his best, like the peasant he is, to not die. Whereas Lunafreya held the weight of Eos on her shoulders.

All of him takes great joy in the fact that she fulfilled her purpose in life.

But so did Noctis.

And maybe it’s just him, but there’s something so viscerally unfair that he gets to return to the realm of the living while Lunafreya remains in the ether.

Prompto feels guilty for the thought. He’s unspeakably grateful to be able to look down and see Noctis not a foot in front of him, melting into his bed like the sleepyhead he is.

“You keep thinking that hard you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Were she given the choice, do you think she would have chosen to come back?”

Noctis opens his eyes, staring hard at the canopy overhead. He looks like he’s about to speak on more than one occasion, but decides against it time and again. Prompto thinks he won’t get an answer until he finally does.

“I hate that I don’t know how to answer that.” He takes in a shaky breath, his eyes gleaming. “Twelve years and I don’t know how to answer.”

There’s something in his words that makes Prompto look away from him. The vulnerability, while not something they’ve ever shied away from showing each other, feels too intimate for even Prompto to witness.

“I feel like she would,” Prompto says. He nods. “If it meant she could continue helping people, I don’t doubt for a second that she would return.”

Noctis turns his head to stare at him, surprise melting away into a look that speaks genuine affection. “You’re projecting.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t think she’d do it.”

“Yeah. You’re right. She would. Sucks that I’m the one that’s here instead.”

“Putting yourself down like that,” Prompto scoffs, shifting in the chair. “You helped more people in your lifetime than I can count.”

“That was a group effort.”

“Maybe, but still.”

“Trust you to be the optimist.”

“Wouldn’t be me otherwise.” And that’s probably the worst lie he’s ever told. He’s been the farthest from optimistic as he can possibly be for a good chunk of his adulthood. Nothing has ever been the same since Altissia, since his world began to fall apart and has continuously done so. Smiles and laughter are something he has to work for, despite being so easily given.

Noctis closes his eyes again, and Prompto refrains from reaching out to him. He swallows that disastrous desire to press his fingertips to the delicate slope of Noctis’ cheekbone, trace it down until he can feel the rough texture of his three-day-old beard. It’s a monumental effort not to reach out and tuck his hair behind his ear.

All things he has done before, freely, without hesitation, but it all feels so different now.

“We can find other ways to make this work,” Noctis says, vaguely gesturing towards his legs. “I know I said a month, but you don’t have to work yourself into the ground over it.”

Prompto’s shrug is meant to be casual, but it comes across as everything but. “Nah, all I need you to do is count on me. I got this. I’ll take it back to the shop. I’m sure Cid and Cindy will be ecstatic to work on something as _wow_ as this.”

“Cid’s just gonna kick your ass for the extra work.”

“More likely, yeah. But… just trust me, okay?”

“I trust you with my life. And then some.”

The words make his bottom lip wobble just a bit, but Prompto bites down on it and hides it with a smile. “Good to hear.”

Satisfied, Noctis reaches for the small remote on the bedside table. He turns the knob, the overhead lights dimming until the room is bathed in darkness.

Prompto takes that as his cue to leave, gathering his wits as he stands up, but a hand wraps around his wrist, silently asking him to stay.

Without a word and a full heart, Prompto sits back down, resting the hand Noctis holds onto on the bed.

His thumb lightly runs over the scar covering his barcode, a gentle caress that has Prompto crumbling with emotion. “Do you think Oracles can see the future?” he asks, knowing how dumb a question it is.

Noctis takes his time to answer, unwilling to let go of Prompto’s hand. “Wondering if she set us up?”

Prompto smiles at the wording. There are some things he’s kept to himself over the years, even from Noctis, because they have been his experiences that he’s kept dear. His friend always had a sneaking suspicion, but Prompto always chalked it up to luck.

“You know how I met Pryna before I met you.”

In the dark room, Prompto can do nothing but wait for Noctis to speak. “Not what I was expecting, but go on.”

“I was walking home from school one day when I came across a wounded pup. Didn’t really have the heart to leave her out in the cold when she could barely walk, so I took her in. Watched over her for a couple ‘a days, but then she was gone and I freaked out over it. Thought something bad had happened.” The memory of how small Pryna was makes him sigh with nostalgia.

“Three weeks later I got a letter. _I_ got a letter, not my parents. A letter addressed to me. I was so pumped and kinda scared since it smelled like perfume. The only other time anything smelled like perfume, well, it wasn’t a good time. Anyways,” he pauses, realizing that he’s rambling. “Luna wrote to thank me for taking care of her dog.”

“How’d she know it was you?”

“Oh, I used my bandana to get Pryna’s leg all bandaged up.”

“Naturally.” Noctis’ hand moves, searching for a way to thread their fingers together. “Go on,” he says once he succeeds, as if he isn’t aware that he’s rendered Prompto a complete mess.

It’s difficult to concentrate when Noctis’ hand is radiating heat, calloused fingers serving as five points of pure electricity.

“Um, basically, the letter said she had someone look into me, and they learned that you and I went to the same school. For some reason, she was under the impression that we knew each other so she asked me to stick around because you didn’t have any friends.”

“That’s wild.”

“Totally.” Prompto squeezes Noctis’ fingers, just to reassure himself that this is actually happening. “I’m here because of Luna. She gave me a reason to prove myself worthy to serve you, to be your friend.”

“You don’t serve me.”

“Dude, you’re my king.”

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re you and I’m me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Prompto stops himself from answering, knowing that now’s not the best time to wallow in his issues with self-worth. “I just mean that Luna made me feel like I was worth something.”

That sounded horrible. He cringes, knowing that even if he takes it back Noctis is going to chide him.

“You’ve always been worth everything, Prompto.”

“That gets a little hard to believe sometimes.”

There’s another long interlude that is filled with silence.

“There’s more to people than what they can give,” Noctis says, gathering bravery from the darkness. “Those scars weren’t there the last time I saw you, and that tells me you’ve never stopped fighting. You’re still protecting people because you’re kind.”

He pauses only briefly. “I always looked up to dad because I thought he did great at two very different jobs. On one hand, I saw him rule mercilessly, making the calls everyone else was too scared to do, but then he’d turn around and pick me up, spin me around while singing songs from kid shows. He had his faults, but he was a kind man. That always struck me as the noblest of qualities.”

Prompto forces a laugh around the knot in his throat. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, Noct.”

“I wish I had half the heart you do.”

“Ah, crap.”

“You’re more than just my friend. And you’re definitely more than my Glaive.”

Prompto grieves that that’s a whole other story he’s yet to tell.

He looks to the curtains, where his eyes have adjusted enough to be able to see vague silhouettes across the room. “You trying to get in my pants?”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

The two of them laugh, quiet little sounds in the otherwise deathly silent night.

Prompto remains long enough to listen to Noctis succumb to sleep, his soft snores making him smile as he thinks back to a time when Gladio physically picked him up, sleeping bag and all, and dumped him into a nearby lake.

The grip on his hand loosens and Prompto take the opportunity to slip free.

There is nothing but warring emotions in him. Grief that is still fresh, happiness that is hesitant. Fear that it will all slip away again soon, and he will have to start all over again.

Looking down at Noctis, Prompto refrains from slipping into the bed and curling up against him. He squeezes his eyes shut because he wants to, he wants to touch and hold and kiss with the same ferocity he felt years ago.

For all that they’ve gone through, for all the people they’ve met, for all of the affection they have so readily exchanged in the privacy of their own little world, Prompto can’t swallow the overwhelming waves of adoration he feels towards Noctis.

He loves him more than he can possibly fathom. Enough to wish him all of the happiness in Eos, enough to challenge the gods.

Tiredness crawls up his body without his awareness, and before he can think better of it Prompto rests his head on the mattress. The position is awkward, but damn if this isn’t the softest surface he’s ever rested on.

A yawn later, he promises himself that he’s only going to rest his eyes for a brief second.

Prompto wakes up at daybreak to find a blanket halfway off his shoulders and warm fingers tangled in his hair. He doesn’t move as he blearily blinks sleep from his eyes, knowing full well that his back is going to scream bloody murder the moment he decides to move.

Instead, he shifts his head enough to see Noctis’ sleeping face mere inches away from his.

The temptation is great, but Prompto fancies himself a gentleman.

He briefly considers slipping out into the balcony to watch the sunrise as he usually tends to do, but for the first time in years, he decides against it. Rather, he opts to watch the play of colors that slip in through the curtains, painting landscapes across a slumbering Noctis, who could easily rival the beauty of dawn itself.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen chapters into this fic and I was amazed at how PG everything was... but then Gladio showed up and everything went out the window. Guy's just the hands-on type so I really can't blame him. In short, this is the chapter that originally made me bump up the rating.

Call it luck, or downright skill, but Prompto’s first prototype is done in just three weeks.

“You done sure it’s ready for a test run?” Cindy says, spinning the prosthetic to inspect each of the individual components visible to the naked eye. “It ain’t the flashiest but, in theory, it oughtta work.”

Prompto hauls a shipping case onto his cleared table, opens it, and verifies if the hand-cut foam has been downsized to safely transfer their creation. “Should. Right now all I can do is hope for the best.”

He slips the foam cover over it before gently putting it in the case. He straps it down, closes it, and latches it shut. After brushing his hands on his pants, he holds one up for a hard-earned high-five.

“Leavin’ soon?”

“Our beloved advisor is getting fussy,” Prompto says, picking up the case and heading out of the shop, Cindy on his heels. “I might stay in Insomnia for a couple ‘a days, just to see how well Noct takes it.”

Cindy mock-punches his side after he’s carefully strapped the case into the backseat of his new old car. It was a side project he worked on whenever the prosthetic gave him a hard time. “Golly, I don’t think you even realize how bad that sounded. Or good, dependin’ on the perspective.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles, closing the car door and side-stepping yet another jab. “Missed.”

“You sure ‘bout that?”

Prompto accidentally walks into a trashcan, nearly knocking it over. “Crap.”

Cindy laughs and waves him off. “Make sure you give me a call once his majesty tries that baby on. And do me a favor before you go.”

“Name it.”

“Put some damn presentable clothes on. Ya’ look a grease monkey.”

Prompto grabs the hem of his shirt and looks down at it, failing to see the issue. The guys have seen him in worse conditions. “The stains just say I’m a working man.”

“S’what I always said,” Cid says, appearing out of nowhere by Prompto’s side. “Weskham always gave me shit for it back in the day. Said it looked bad. Reggie never cared.” He gestures towards the car. “M’sure his boy won’t either.”

Suddenly self-conscience, Prompto rubs his thumb against the stain he’s had since the first time he ever wore this shirt some two years ago.

He ignores Cindy’s laugh as he hurries into his caravan for a quick change of clothes. Quick being an overstatement. It takes him the better part of thirty minutes to choose between the three entire outfits he owns. The deciding factor is which smells the least like sweat and motor oil.

He should probably take a shower before heading out.

He does, scrubbing at his hair and thinking for the umpteenth time that he really does need a haircut. His hair keeps falling over all over his face regardless of how much time he spends trying to style it.

Before heading out, he opts to tie whatever he can of it back.

Boots on and duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Prompto bounds out of the caravan feeling refreshed and ready to go. After spending so long hunched over his table it’s great to be able to stretch out and walk his legs, the end of a goal in sight.

“Now would you look at you,” Cindy says, wolf whistling as Prompto flings his bag onto the passenger seat. “All cleaned up and lookin’ like a million gil.”

Prompto scoffs. “I always look like a million gil.”

“Haven’t seen you in all black in a while, though.”

“Huh.” He looks down at himself, perplexed. “I didn’t notice that.”

“Sure ya’ didn’t.”

Cid’s nowhere to be seen when he decides he’s lingered enough, getting into the driver’s seat and shutting the door. He’s about to turn the engine over when Cindy pop’s her head in through the window, her previously mischievous expression replaced with one of gentle concern.

“Keep yer eyes peeled,” she says, reaching in and flicking his forehead. “I keep hearing things ‘round ‘bout hunters coming across beasties a little out of the ordinary. Not sure if daemons but… it’s enough to give me the jitters.”

Prompto fists the steering wheel, taken aback by the repugnant need to ignore her. He doesn’t want to deal with this. Not now, not ever, not when he has bigger fish to fry. He can deal with not-daemons when he’s gotten his shit together.

“Thanks for the heads up,” he says.

Cindy raps her knuckles against the car door and backs away, giving him a smile that says more than she would ever say out loud. “Full speed ahead.”

***

Prompto arrives at the Citadel more agitated than he had anticipated. Duffle bag on his back and case hanging by his side, he takes the steps two by two and is welcomed by a familiar face waiting in the lobby.

One moment he’s facing fancy statues, the next he’s nearly knocked off his feet by a solid wall of five feet and six inches worth of muscle.

“Prompto!”

“Iris?”

“It’s been ages!”

Prompto laughs, doing his best to return the hug with one arm while the other holds fast to the delicate cargo. “Jeez, tell me about it. Also, I can’t breathe.”

Iris squeezes him even tighter, making him wheeze before she steps back with a grin brighter than the sun. “Taking people’s breath away is my specialty.”

“Heh, no doubt about it. Look at you.” She’s come a long way from the gangly teenager who griped about her brother being an overprotective jerk who wouldn’t let her fight. Clad in hunter gear, with a scar twisting from behind her ear all the way down to her chest, Iris still exudes the same hospitable aura she always has.

Plus, damn the Amicitia genes for making them all so damn attractive.

“Actually, I was talking about how good I am at literally crushing chests but I’ll take the compliment.”

Prompto gives her a thumbs up. “Wait, _people’s_?”

“If you’re here to see King Noctis, he’s currently in a meeting with the High Council. Gladdy says they might take a while,” she says, turning on her heels. “Apparently the price for immortality is being constantly bored to death.”

The more she speaks, the harder it gets for him to take it all in. Too much information in a single go.

“Wait, what? And, _King Noctis_?” That last bit sounds teasing given how she seemed to savor every syllable. “Don’t tell me you still got a crush on him.”

“Rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Prompto and Noctis sitting in a tree…”

He gapes at her, suddenly mortified at being overheard. “Hey!”

“K-I-S-S-I—”

“What are you two on about?” Gladio interrupts as he emerges from one of the many hallways connecting the lobby.

“N-G.”

“Iris.”

“Just poking a little fun at Prompto. Look at how red he is, it’s adorable.”

Gladio rolls his eyes and is about to say something before stopping dead in tracks. “I will cut your hair myself if I have to.”

“Come on, man. It ain’t that bad. I kinda like it. Would you rather I keep it loose?”

“You look like you’re twelve.”

“Would a twelve-year-old have these guns?”

“I did!” Iris says, hanging onto her brother’s arm.

It’s then that Prompto realizes the metal protruding from her fingerless gloves. He wonders how long ago she lost it, and how far the loss actually goes. Her movements seem natural enough, and he marvels at the ingenuity of it.

“You’re an Amicitia,” Gladio says with pride, looking down at Iris with a warm smile. “We had guns by the tender age of two.”

“Pretty sure that’s unhealthy,” Prompto says.

The three of them pile into the nearest elevator.

“Noct’s meeting with the Council?” It takes Prompto an embarrassing amount of time to realize what that means. “I leave for a couple of weeks and nobody bothers sending me a text.”

“I sent you one,” Gladio says, trying and failing to hide a dirty smirk.

Prompto bristles. “A very heartwarming messages it was, Big Guy, but I was thinking something along the lines of… _massive_ importance.”

“I think it’s pretty massive.”

“What is?”

“Nothing,” Prompto says, while Gladio simultaneously replies, “the message.” They share a look, one smug and the other nine kinds of distressed.

Iris switches looking between them, before deciding that she would rather not know. She grumbles something along the lines of “dumb boys”, despite all three of them being well into adulthood.

“Jokes aside,” Gladio continues, sobering up. “The Council’s pushing harder for a definitive ultimatum, and Noct was done letting Iggy lose sleep over it.”

“What changed?”

“Niflheim raised a white flag.”

Prompto clenches his jaw, nodding. “We aren’t at war.”

“No, but they’re aware of the shit-show the empire took center stage in the last time they were in Lucis.”

The elevator doors open and they make for the living quarters, quiet until they lock the doors behind them. Prompto leaves his duffle bag by the desk.

“They’re afraid,” Iris says, waltzing into the place like she’s been here all her life. She disappears into the adjoining kitchen and remerges with three cans of beer, tossing over two of them before opening her own. “The rumors got them spooked.”

“I keep hearing about things popping up everywhere in Lucis,” Prompto says, frowning down at the can.

“It’s not just in Lucis,” Iris explains, dropping down onto the couch and shifting until she’s sitting on her legs. “Several Nif territories, too. As well as Accordo.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“And because I wanted to see my brother again, but mostly, yeah.”

“They forced our hand,” Gladio says. “If the people of Insomnia find out, well, you can probably tell how well that’s gonna go.”

There would be riots in the streets. Absolute chaos at the mere idea of letting whatever remnants there may be left of the empire enter their city once again. Prompto himself is wary of the idea, but whatever the choice, he will stand by his friends.

“Guess there’s a new Immortal in town, huh.”

“I think he’s earned his medal of badassery,” Gladio admits. “He’s still a punk, though. Last week he planned on sneaking out to go fishing.”

“Sounds like Noct.”

“Then he decided that it was too much effort to make it out of the Citadel in his wheelchair and decided to take a nap in the living room instead.”

“That’s him alright.”

“What’s in the case?” Iris asks once she’s done chugging her drink and crushing the can between her hands.

Prompto looks at his own can and whines. That looks like it would hurt. “A little something to make Noct’s life easier. Had I known he was meeting with the Council, I would have brought it in sooner.”

“You finished it this morning,” Gladio says.

“Could’ve done it a little faster had you guys asked.”

He drinks the last of his beer, disliking the taste but allowing it for the sake of comradery. He chucks the can into the trash bin and it’s only then that he fully realizes he’s still holding onto the case. Iris doesn’t mention it, but Gladio eventually gestures for Prompto to follow him.

“Drop it off in his room. We can try it on once he’s done.”

Prompto obeys, crossing two rooms to reach Noctis’ bedroom. Once inside, after Gladio pointedly closes the door behind him, he allows himself to gently put the case down on Noctis’ desk. He sighs with relief at the bounty delivered, but the feeling is short-lived when a hand lands on the back of his neck.

Gladio slips a finger underneath Prompto’s hair band, snapping it off and pulling out several strands of hair in the process.

“Hey!” but all protests die out when that big hand buries itself into his hair, blunt fingers massaging his scalp. Prompto could melt into a puddle were it not for the fact that he’s leaning most of his weight against the desk.

“When’s that last time you got a full night’s rest?” Gladio says near his ear, and, well shit, Prompto’s maybe a little turned on by it.

“Last night?”

“Those are some serious bags under your eyes.”

“They’re kind of a permanent fixture now but thanks for noticing.”

Gladio tugs on his hair and holy fuck does it make heat pool in all the right places. “Maybe you can have Iggy give it a snip,” but the suggestiveness in his tone delivers a different message entirely. “With all of us around.”

Prompto hasn’t the slightest what his deal is, between the extremely not-safe-for-work image text and this, he feels like he’s being deliberately wound up to be let go at any given moment.

As if to prove a point, Gladio grips Prompto’s hip with his available hand and pulls him back against him, pressing the length of his body flush against Gladio’s in an impressive display of strength and height advantage.

Prompto allows it, sinking into Gladio’s heat and nearly purring as he continues to work his scalp in persistent circles, lighting static that trickles down his neck and past his shoulders. The hand at Prompto’s hip moves to skim the bit of skin between his shirt and pants, lightly dragging blunt nails that spark a heaviness in his thighs.

“Whatever happened to never wearing drab ol’ black again?”

Prompto smirks. “Just wanted to express my servitude to the king.”

Gladio huffs against his cheek, and it’s hot in the already stuffy air of the room. “I bet you’d like that.”

Prompto wonders how obvious he’s been throughout his life. Noctis obviously knows despite the unspoken ban of the subject, but he’s never outright told the others. Not that it mattered. Odds are Noct’s name has accidentally slipped out of him in more than one occasion during his alone time.

Life’s hard when the guy you’ve been in love with since middle school has been engaged to be married before you even met, and also happens to be royalty. It’s even harder when you sleep pressed up against him for the better part of a year, in a tent, while your two other companions get it on in a not-so-discreet fashion.

A hand over his groin has Prompto coming back to the present with a quivering moan that’s immediately hushed by a big meaty hand. Not that anyone would hear them this far into the suite.

“I bet Noct would get off on the sounds you make alone.”

“Not even a little bit funny, Gladio.”

Gladio chuckles, pulling away and leaving Prompto to feel a world of frustration.

“You know, I bet all you’d have to do is ask,” Gladio says, flashing him a teasing grin. “Maybe if we get you horny enough you’ll cave and do so.”

Prompto can feel his face burning hot, pants more than a little tight below the belt. “You’re a monster.”

“So you’ve said.”

Prompto briefly considers stepping into the bathroom for a little relief when his phone vibrates, announcing the arrival of one king and his advisor in less than twenty minutes. He curses, loudly, as Gladio laughs his way out of the room.

***

To make matters infinitely worse, Noctis enters the room in full kingly raiment, looking every bit as aggravated as Prompto had expected him to be. So much so that he’s wheeling himself in, Ignis trailing behind him with a sullen expression that has them all falling silent.

“Prompto’s here,” Noctis announces, shoulders sagging with something akin to relief.

“Yes, I can smell him,” Ignis says. He’s not trying to be deliberately funny, but the way he says it has them all making their own variation of an amused sound. “How nice of you to join us.”

“Nice to see you too, Iggy.”

Noctis stops across the room, staring long and hard at Prompto as if he’s personally offended him. “Be glad you can’t see him, Specs. If you got a load of his hair you’d have an aneurism.”

“I think it’s cute,” Iris says in his defense.

“Ha! At least someone thinks so. Thanks, Iris.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Ignis says, honing in on Prompto with scary accuracy. Before he can move out of the way Ignis is on him, fingers deftly judging its length. “I see.”

“Can you? Really?”

“At least it’s clean.”

“At least I’m still blond and not blue.”

“I believe the Glaive describes it as seafoam.” Ignis pats his head as if petting a small child. “I may be able to make it manageable with the right scissors.”

“Better you than Gladio. He threatened to give me a buzz cut.”

“It’s not that bad,” Noctis chimes in, looking like he’s about to crack up laughing at any given second. “Definitely better than seafoam.”

“And cuter,” Prompto points out.

“Definitely cuter.”

Prompto beams, perfectly content to let Ignis toy with his head a little longer. His fingers are slimmer than Gladio’s, definitely more dexterous, and Prompto could easily fall asleep to the sensation of a scalp massage. So long as Ignis doesn’t decide to also grind up on him.

“I got the goods,” Prompto says, and the statement has Noctis straightening up in the wheelchair. “Did… did no one tell you?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Ignis explains, stepping away. “I knew the meeting would not go over as well as we hoped, so I figured a bit of good news would put you in a better mood,” he tells Noctis, canting his head to the side as if asking forgiveness.

“Don’t sweat it, Iggy. Can I have a go at it?”

“I believe Prompto set it down in your room.”

Noctis allows Gladio to take over for him, guiding them back into the bedroom, but not before Iris takes her leave, stating this was something best kept between the four of them.

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Noctis says.

“Thank you, but I have calls to make and check-ins to do. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning and see how everything’s coming along.”

Gladio escorts her out and they resume their mission.

In the bedroom, door locked and curtains drawn, they all gather around the desk as Prompto makes quick work out of opening the case and pulling back the protective barrier. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet with pure nervous energy, a dozen doubts making him want to run and never turn back.

But Ignis touches his shoulder in quiet understanding after he takes too long to say or do anything, and it’s enough to strengthen his resolve.

“I got a little help from Cindy and several of her friends. It’s hardly magical, more of an exo-cast for better support and a wider range of movement, but it isn’t a cure.”

At this point, the air itself feels uncertain when Prompto can’t even sell his own product. It’s awkward looking but should work.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Noctis says, hands dropping to his belt. Gladio helps him remove the outer layers of his attire, shoes, and pants going last as he sits back down.

Prompto carefully removes the prosthetic from the foam as well as the toolkit he’s brought with him.

He kneels in front of Noctis and asks Gladio to hold up his leg as he slips on the inner covering. Next, he does quick work out of installing the outer hydraulics system, smaller than anything he’s ever worked with. He’s careful not to pinch skin as he manually adjusts the height and built-in shock-absorber system to allow him more fluidity.

The process takes a total of thirty-five minutes, requiring the utmost patience and concentration Prompto can physically muster. Only to repeat it on the other leg.

It is early afternoon when he allows himself to fall back on his ass, sweat making him feel gross but accomplished as he stares up at his handiwork.

Noctis watched the entire process with a look akin to constant surprise. He didn’t say a single word, allowing Prompto to work his magic.

“When you said you were dealing with weapon modification, this wasn’t what I pictured,” he finally says.

Prompto gives him a thumbs up. “Yeah, well, I kinda branched out a bit. Not a lot, but just enough to experiment with a couple things.”

“Ready to try standing up?” Ignis says, having hovered near throughout the entire painstaking process.

Noctis looks up at him and nods without hesitation. But rather than allow anyone to help him, he stubbornly plants a foot firmly on the floor and jerkily pushes himself up.

For a heart-stopping second Prompto thinks he’s going to tip over, but Noctis once again blows their expectations out of the water.

On his two feet, Noctis looks down at himself with a deep frown. “Huh.”

Prompto feels his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. “It’s just a prototype. I can come up with something better, I swear.”

Noctis takes a shaky step forward, and then another, and another, and it’s enough to quieten the monster shouting ugly things in Prompto’s mind. His movements are wonky, as far from natural as they can possibly be, but Noctis is grinning by the time he’s turning around to face them again.

“Boy, does it feel good to be on my feet again.”

Prompto would feel less enthusiastic were he given a thousand gil. “Nailed it.”

“Has some room for improvement, but…” Noctis gets too confident and tries to flex his knees, making the prosthetic lock up. He would have fallen over if not for Ignis jumping in right on time to catch him.

Prompto’s beside him in no time, hurrying over to inspect the damage. “Like I said, it’s not a cure, but it should help you get around more easily.”

Ignis and Gladio lead Noctis to the bed, where he plops down with a miniscule flinch. “Doesn’t have much give,” he explains, gingerly pressing his fingers to where the steel meets the rubber sock. “It’s great when I’m not moving, but it’s painful when I bend the knee.”

“Noted.” Prompto presses along the edge of the contraption, searching for any hint of discomfort. He will need a better material, one just as firm but flexible enough to grant him better mobility. “I’ll go through the books, see how I can modify for extended usage. At least it’ll fit under your clothing, more or less.” It’s small enough, spanning a few inches length-wise away from his knees.

He figures it’s more of a portable mechanical harness meant to reinforce the strength of Noct’s knees rather than a full prosthetic, but those are just technicalities.

“It’ll work for the time being,” Ignis reassures him, once more squeezing Prompto’s shoulder for a job well done. “I’m impressed by your prowess, Prompto. I had no idea your skill went this far.”

“It was nothing,” he lies, smiling so wide his cheeks begin to hurt. “I promise I’ll make it better, Noct. You’ll be showing off your kingly strut in no time. Just in time to get all the ladies.”

“All of them. Every single one. Even the professor.”

“Gladio might be able to give you a few pointers,” Prompto quips. “Take ‘em with a grain of salt, though. Guy comes on too strong if you ask me.”

“You weren’t complaining,” Gladio shoots back, and the comment makes both Ignis and Noctis snort.

“You two had a party and we weren’t invited?” Noctis says, hand dramatically over his chest.

Prompto manages to snap the pieces back into place with little trouble, giving Noctis the go-ahead to stand up.

“I left early,” Gladio says.

“What a shame,” Ignis adds. “Blowing off a little steam would do us all some good.”

Prompto is all up for a little canoodling but when Ignis is the one to bring it up something must definitely be wrong. “That bad, huh?”

Noctis interrupts whatever reply may be on the way by standing up, carefully this time, and wobbling over to the curtains. He draws them open, letting the sun shine its way in and illuminate the room. “If we’re going to talk about it, I demand pizza.”

The statement seems out of place, but neither of them complains.

“I want extra cheese,” Prompto says before anyone even reaches for a phone.

“Green peppers,” Gladio adds.

“Thin crust,” Ignis demands.

Noctis plucks his phone out of his jacket pocket before realizing, in a moment of pure panic, that he’s standing over Insomnia with no pants on. He tries to keep his cool, however, as he dials their favorite pizza shop from memory. It’s been over fifteen years but at this point, life consists of hoping for the best. “Dinner’s on me.”

***

They order too much pizza. After struggling to find a shop that actually delivers, convincing the driver that yes they are in fact ordering from _the Citadel_ , and having Prompto go fetch the boxes as the scattered Glaives stare in utter confusion, they overeat to the point that even Gladio refuses to move from his spot on the couch.

“That was great,” Prompto groans, staring at the last slice that so cruelly taunts him.

“The amount of grease was appalling.”

“You ate like four slices, Iggy.”

“I said appalling. Never mentioned the taste not being to my liking.”

“I don’t want to see another pizza in about a week,” Noctis adds from where he lays on the rug in the entertainment room. He’s idly rocking his legs to-and-fro, making the best out of his rediscovered ability to move.

“We stuffed our faces but neither of you mentioned how the meeting went,” Prompto says, unable to forget the reason why they decided to splurge. In the years he’s known and trained with the rest of the guys, never has Ignis even thought about allowing them to pig out in such a fashion.

It scares Prompto half to death, whatever it may be. Knowing that the Council knows, and how easy it now is for the news to hit mainstream media, Prompto is met with the reality that Lucis will soon find out that its king has returned.

This little bubble of impromptu happiness and intimacy will soon be popped, and their world will shift again.

They nearly slip into a food coma before Ignis finally speaks up. “Needless to say, the Council’s faces when Noct entered the room were priceless.”

Rich coming from the man who can’t see. “How long before the cat’s out of the bag?”

“I give it till morning,” Noctis says. “Now’s your chance if you wanna slip away without the media hounding you.”

“Good thing I brought enough stuff to hang tight for a while,” Prompto says. “Bet everything’s a right mess now that they have a king again. Or not, maybe. I don’t know how any of this works, so.”

There’s a brief silence that Prompto doesn’t like.

“I’m abolishing Lucis.”

The words land harder than a punch can.

Gladio abruptly sits up, staring at Noctis with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

Prompto lays perfectly still, failing to understand what that even means.

“You’re doing what, now?” Gladio presses.

“I’m stepping down as king, and I’m taking the kingdom with me.”

The authority with which he speaks shakes Prompto to the core.

“Lucis will remain as a new republic in which all of its outlying territories will be self-governing.” Noctis sits up, fixing Gladio with a hard stare. “Accordo is willing to reform our relationship with the agreement that no single ruling power intervenes with the rebuilding effort.”

“What did we gain from Accordo during the previous war?” Gladio says, voice too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“An alliance that aided the Oracle in awakening the Hydrean, which in turn granted me entering a covenant with Leviathan,” Noctis says without missing a beat. “They protected said Oracle when we couldn’t, warding off Nif forces long enough for us to act.”

“I think we all remember how well that went.”

“I think you’re forgetting the very important fact that I’m the _last of my bloodline_ , as per a prophecy that hasn’t been wrong yet. I’m not supposed to be alive, but here I fucking am, and the least I can do is lead my kingdom through a peaceful transition in which it can rebuild and thrive without rulers.” Noctis stops to take a deep breath. “Even with the full power of the Crystal at my disposal and the Ring, the best I would be able to do is defend Insomnia. I will not be a king who forsakes the rest of his people.”

The jab seems to hurt Noctis more than it hurts any of them, and Prompto marvels at how well he has adapted the ability to see faults without judgment. To learn from others’ mistakes, including his father’s, is a great mark for a king. For any man, really.

“Don’t you understand why King Regis fortified Insomnia? Are you really that dense?”

“My father acted from an emotionally compromised position,” Noctis says, challenging Gladio to push him on the matter. “He prioritized my life over everyone else’s, and this is me taking responsibility for his choice.”

Prompto looks between them, then to Ignis, who sits quietly at one of the desks.

“You got anything to say about this?” Gladio asks him.

Ignis lifts his head. “I’m only his advisor.”

“And what did you advise him?”

“That, as king, it is ultimately his call.”

“What did the Council think?” Prompto dares to ask.

“The official statement was that they would consider the notion, given that there are no guidelines on what to do in this type of situation. Basically, they were too scared to come up with a comeback on the spot.”

“Everything will continue as planned,” Ignis says, answering Prompto’s unasked question. “When the time comes, Noct will address the kingdom. He will be reintroduced into society, and a polling system will be established for citizens to choose their upcoming leaders.”

“You’re talking about a full political revamping,” Gladio says, less hostile than he had been two minutes ago.

Noctis nods. “It’ll be a long and difficult process, but it isn’t impossible.”

“What if the Council doesn’t approve?”

To this, Noctis shakes his head and taps a finger against the contraption over his right knee. “In that case, they can blow me.”

“Noct’s word is law of the land,” Ignis confirms, “even if crudely put.”

“What are you gonna do when you’re no longer king?” It’s one of the many questions Prompto can think of at the moment, angling his head just so to be able to look at Noctis.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”


	16. Chapter 16

Noctis loudly slurps his soup to get back at Ignis.

Drafting a speech is no laughing matter given the sensitivity of the situation, with tensions running high and a stubborn king whose heart is set in the wellbeing of his people.

That being said, Noctis is trying. So is Ignis. Sometimes trying isn’t enough when the clock is ticking and the masses are beginning to gather outside of the Citadel, murmuring amongst themselves and hoping for a glimpse to confirm the rumors. Initial reports are mixed and Ignis has taken it upon himself to sway the public opinion.

Prompto helps by asking the questions anyone without extensive political knowledge would ask, breaking the complex lingo into more palatable concepts.

For better or for worse Noctis insists they deliver the truth, or at least a version of it. He requests leaving out the more confusing details of his return, hoping to only vaguely allude to the magic of the Crystal – the same one that brought them the Light after the long night.

“Leading Lucis into a new age of enlightenment,” Ignis recites from what has to be the fourth draft. Gladio dutifully writes it all down.

“I’m thinking that’s a little too much for a reintroduction,” Prompto says, pouring over the schematics of Noctis’ prosthetic. He’s taken to working in the living quarters since the hustle and bustle of the others keeps his mind from wandering. “Have you considered a press release? Or, like, a letter to the news outlets? Beforehand, I mean.”

Noctis stirs the contents in his bowl, frowning down at it. He’s sneezed four times over the course of two days, which prompted Ignis to make him a big bowl of vegetable soup as a preventive measure. “Already on it. It’s scheduled to air a week from today,” he says, “followed by the address.”

“And then the gala!”

“Someone’s excited,” Gladio says. “It’s all Iris talks about, too.”

“Can you blame her? An actual royal gala. How cool is that?”

“Not very.” Noctis scowls at his soup, pushing something out of the way before giving up and putting the spoon down. “The music’s boring, the conversation’s boring, everything’s boring. Gotta watch how you talk, drink, even walk.”

“But necessary,” Ignis adds, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“But necessary.”

“I say we liven things up,” Prompto says, refusing to let them kill his fantasy of shiny things and gorgeous people. “Last of the last, we should go out with a bang.”

Noctis smiles at him. “Lucis’ senior year?”

“Hellz yeah.”

Ignis shakes his head but it’s an endeared gesture that makes Prompto feel less childish for recommending it. “We could propose a celebration outside of the Citadel.”

Noctis immediately perks up at the suggestion. “Like a festival.”

“No doubt Lucians will organize one after the documents are signed,” Gladio says. He closes the book in front of him, calling it a day for transcribing. “Less to see the kingdom go, but more for their ability to call the shots for once.”

“But we still need a gala,” Prompto points out, “To welcome officials from neighboring nations.” He pauses for a moment. “That’s what they’re actually for, right?”

“Among other things,” Ignis says.

“Like dancing with princesses and falling in love and—”

“Keep telling yourself you like women,” Gladio quips.

“I do!”

“Sure.”

“Guys are okay, too. Some of ‘em. Not you.”

“That’s not what you said last week.”

“Says the guy who only dates women,” Prompto shoots back.

“I don’t date anymore,” Gladio says, matter-of-factly, “I have other priorities.”

“Like banging my best friend?” Noctis says coolly, eyebrows raised.

“We are not,” Prompto says. “Igster, defend my virtue.”

“I’m afraid there is none left for me to defend.”

“Oh, come on. I haven’t had any in months. It’s unfair for you guys to be this mean to me.”

The remark is met with scattered amusement. That is until Noctis scrutinizes what it is he’s said. “Who’d you sleep with?”

“What?”

“You said you hadn’t had any in months, so who’d you sleep with?”

Prompto gapes as they all turn to him, face growing hot. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Gladio sidles up next to him on the floor, legs crossed and quickly getting Prompto in a headlock before he can even think to escape the room. “Out with it, blondie.”

“Come now, Gladio. It’s obvious he is only trying to seem virile.”

“Really, Prompto,” says Noctis, “it isn’t like we’ve never openly discussed these things.”

“You died a virgin,” Gladio says flatly.

Noctis bristles. “How do _you_ know?”

“On various occasions, you reminded us that you were holding yourself off for Lady Lunafreya. I believe I commended you for your nobility,” Ignis clarifies.

“‘Cause you wouldn’t have been able to keep your dick in your pants,” Gladio says.

“I was never engaged to be married.”

“Tell that to half the men and women in Lestallum.”

“Remember that one guy who swore he’d make a husband out of you?” Noctis says.

Ignis laughs despite himself. “How could I forget? The Leville contacted me and requested I ask him to stop leaving messages at the front desk.”

Gladio hums his approval. “Now that’s what I call raw sex-appeal.”

“You only say that ‘cause you’ve boned him at least twice,” Prompto manages to say with half his face squished against Gladio’s chest.

“Twice a night, you mean.”

Ignis huffs, making Noctis laugh. “Don’t get me started on the tent bullshit. Doesn’t matter how quiet you try to be, there are four of us sleeping in a tiny area.”

“And yet,” Ignis says, jabbing a finger into Noctis’ shoulder, “you neither stopped us nor walked away.”

By now, Gladio has subdued Prompto. “Neither did you,” he says slyly.

Neither of them replies to whatever accusation they’re making, and Gladio counts it as a victory.

“Perverts.”

“Say the guys banging right next to two completely innocent souls trying to catch some sleep,” Noctis says, trying to defend their honor. Prompto appreciates his efforts.

“It was either that or the car,” Ignis says. “I feel you would have appreciated us choosing the tent.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“Regardless,” Ignis waves them off, “this session is over, considering that the three of you are still fourteen and ravaged by hormones.”

***

Their days blend together in a haze that seems unreal more often than not, like a waking dream conjured up for the sake of a more comforting bout of wakefulness.

Days easily turn to weeks for Prompto as he spends most of them traveling between Hammerhead and Insomnia for upgrades and modifications to Noctis’ prosthetic. His head is shoved in his work, pouring countless hours and sleepless nights into his project, racing against time to optimize the contraption to its fullest potential.

He misses the press release entirely, biking into the center of the city as the crowds disperse from the square. He can’t decide if the overall reaction around him is negative or positive, with the exception of the few people who openly exclaimed their joy.

And so it goes for him, time hurtling forward at breakneck speed as he tries to keep up.

He barely sees Noctis now that he is once again officially recognized as the 114th King of Lucis, and Prompto feels like he’s missed something very important. One day they were cooped up in the royal suite cracking bad jokes and eating pizza, and now Prompto mostly sees him in the papers, hears his voice through the radio, occasionally receives a text demanding he stop by the Citadel if it meant sitting on a couch and not talking for three hours until Noctis revived himself out of his stupor.

It all happened at once.

He fears he’s missed Noctis’ official address to the people, the televised one he and Ignis have worked tirelessly to perfect. He hasn’t. He still has a week to go, which means he has seven days to finish the damn prosthetic.

It’s strange to see candid photographs of Noctis in the media where he’s walking upright but with the assistance of a cane. Were he not so young, it would be easy for people to take him for the late King Regis.

For now, Prompto punches a bag in the gymnasium in the Citadel’s basement level, concentrating really hard not to pull a muscle as he delivers each blow with complete control.

He can’t remember when the last time he trained was, but Gladio talked him into it while discussing a routine for Noctis’ physical therapy.

The four of them take up the room.

There’s tension in the air, an unsettling aura that settles over them like persistent fog. Such is the life of royalty and its guard, Prompto figures. There’s no telling how the address will go, how the crowd will react. No way to determine how the Accordians’ presence will influence the treaties Noctis is aiming for, or how Niflheim will present itself once its representatives arrive at Insomnia’s gates.

They are all getting antsy, especially the Kingsglaive as they hurry to secure the city.

At the center of the gymnasium on a padded mat lays Noctis, face twisted in pain as Gladio pushes his left leg up and back, bending it at the knee as far as it can. He brings it back down, letting go of a sharp breath once it’s straight out on the floor.

Hair sticks to his face damp with sweat as they continue the slow process of restoring Noctis’ flexibility. When not this, they’re in the pool, re-learning how to move and easing him into more complex positions.

It’s a slow and grueling process that has continued for weeks, and the main reason why Prompto refuses to stop until he’s gotten the perfect prosthetic. If only to see the trace of pain gone from Noctis’ face whenever he tries to walk a little faster than necessary.

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he finds Ignis hovering by his side. “Would you mind doing me a favor?”

Prompto agrees and not five minutes later he’s on his knees, holding down his bare feet as Ignis repeatedly does ten sets of twenty sit-ups with unsurprising ease.

No one really talks as they go from exercising to sparring to weapons training, Noctis taking baby steps as he dodges elementary hits before falling to his knees when the pain becomes too much. Gladio barks at him, reminding him that no enemy will hold back once their opponent shows the slightest weakness.

He wonders if kings ever trained, or if this is a Noctis exclusive. Prompto recalls learning about warrior monarchs in school but it seemed like such an archaic concept. Regis had his Kingsglaive and his Shield. Noctis does too. Physical therapy he understands, but this is downright battle training.

“Get up,” Gladio commands, pacing the room like a coeurl contained in a man’s body.

Noctis gives himself only a moment’s respite before he’s pushing himself up again, breathing heavily through gritted teeth before he’s throwing his entire weight forward, swinging his makeshift sword with deadly strength.

It’s mesmerizing to watch. With barely any magic and barely capable of walking, Noctis forces his body to move like it used to. He gives Gladio no quarter, the ferocity with which he fights unlike anything Prompto has ever seen before.

Noctis is _angry_ , and Prompto hates his inability to talk about the things that go on in his head. For all his lightheartedness and seriousness towards royal matters, there is a myriad of feelings Noctis has yet to work through.

“What’s happening?” Ignis asks from where he sits beside him. “He sounds agitated.”

Prompto doesn’t know how to answer. Gladio is pushing harder, hitting Noctis where he can’t move fast enough to protect himself, and Noctis is retaliating by swinging wherever he can reach. It’s disastrous, and Prompto can barely take any more.

“Noct’s struggling to stay up,” he says. “Gladio ain’t giving him much of a break.”

Ignis hums, dabbing the towel around his neck across his forehead. “It’s frustrating having to adapt one’s self to function differently.”

Prompto looks at him, reaching over to lay a hand over Ignis’ knee. “You did a hell of a job at it.”

“I’ve no doubt Noct will able to do the same given the time. As is, I fear he will retreat into himself until he feels able-bodied enough.”

He agrees. “Then we have to remind him we’re here to help. Even if it seems like Gladio’s made it his personal goal to whup his ass.”

“Indeed.” Ignis places his hand over Prompto’s and gives it a light squeeze. “As for you.”

“What about me?”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ve been.”

“Your grip was inconsistent, which tells me you were losing focus.”

“Sorry if holding onto your feet isn’t the most exciting thing out there.” Ignis gives his hand yet another squeeze, this one tighter. “Alright, alright. Can’t do a great job if I can’t focus on what I’m doing.”

There’s a grunt and Prompto looks up to see Noctis hit the floor again, but this time he goes for Gladio’s knees in one swift move. He knocks him over and in mere moments Noctis is on top of him, ready to land a punch that is expertly deflected by a palm much larger than his fist.

Gladio flips them, pinning Noctis underneath him with a knee to his chest, and Prompto’s heart kicks into high gear.

Just as quickly, perhaps realizing his mistake, Gladio lets up and uses a hand instead. Keeping Noctis down, he leans over to say something into his ear that is too low for neither he nor Ignis to catch.

Noctis eventually stops struggling, allowing himself to lay flat on the floor and dig fingers into the corner of his eyes. He’s out of breath, clothing askew, and he’s letting out a shout that shakes Prompto to the core.

Gladio falls back onto his knees beside him, allowing him a moment to regroup.

Time continues on its odd crawl until Gladio swings up onto his feet and extends a hand down for Noctis to take. Noctis, who stands on shaky legs, says nothing.

“Let’s hit the showers,” Gladio tells them, and they all follow without a word.

***

“It isn’t fair,” Noctis says.

The silence had been long and heavy.

They had showered, slipped into comfortable clothes, and made their way back up to Noctis’ bedroom. Once there, without questions or hesitations, they had thrown the odd assortment of sheets and blankets and pillows on the bed onto the floor.

Doors locked and lights off, they cocooned themselves into the pile.

Prompto would have sworn they were all asleep had it not been for Noctis’ sudden outburst.

“I made my peace,” he says, and it’s too dark to properly see him, but the way his voice cracks is enough of a giveaway. “What was the point of any of it? There are so many people who could have come back, so many people who deserve it more than I do.”

“Noct…”

“ _Many sacrificed all for the king, so must the king sacrifice himself for all._ ”

“Noct.”

“I _hate_ it. What was the fucking point?!” Noctis abruptly sits up, clutching his chest as he struggles to quell the quivering sobs now pouring out of him like a cascade. “Luna, dad – everyone, but _me_?”

Ignis sits up next, gently putting a hand on Noctis’ back and rubbing small circles against his shirt. He shushes him as one would a crying child, trying to offer comfort, but Noctis’ shoulders tremble in the darkness around him.

“Your people still need you,” Ignis offers as consolation, hand moving upwards to rub at his neck. “Perhaps, there are some things you’ve yet to do.”

“Like _what_?”

“Ushering in a new era in which Eos will begin to rebuild itself stronger than it ever was before.”

Noctis scoffs, leaning away from the touch.

“I need you,” Prompto offers, quiet enough he thinks it may have gone unheard if not for the way Ignis turns to him.

Noctis’ shoulders drop then, head hanging low for a couple of moments before he’s reaching over Ignis, offering Prompto his hand to take. He does so and is unceremoniously dragged across the pile and into Noctis’ arms.

Head tucked under Noctis’ chin and face buried against his exposed neck, Prompto sighs as an extra pair of large arms wrap themselves around the two of them in a loose hold. Gladio sits by them quietly, serving as what’s possibly the softest shield they’ve ever encountered. “We all need you, champ,” he says.

Ignis combs back the hair that has fallen into Noctis’ face with his fingers, softly humming a song Prompto remembers hearing years ago. “Let us survive tonight,” Ignis says, a promise lacing his words. “We will worry about tomorrow once the sun rises.”

Prompto doesn’t remember falling asleep like this, but when he wakes, neither of them have moved much throughout the night.

The sun illuminates the room with its soft orange glow, heralding the new day with the promise of better things.

There’s a knee digging into his lower back, his neck is sore, the back of his knee itches and he can’t move to scratch it without the risk of waking up Ignis. It’s just like old times, only they’re all pressed closer together regardless of the plentiful amount of open space they have.

Fingers trace patterns against his bare shoulder and Prompto opens his eyes to find Noctis peering down at him, the blue of his eyes hazy in the early morning light. They don’t speak, but Noctis leans in enough to press a kiss to Prompto’s forehead as if to say _I need you too_.

And maybe, just maybe, they will all be okay after all.


	17. Chapter 17

“Is this really necessary?”

“As necessary as everything else, yes.”

Noctis slips two fingers under his stiff collar and clears his throat. “It isn’t like I’ve forgotten how to do it.”

Not two feet in front of him, Ignis shakes his head. “I don’t need to see in order to tell you your posture is improper.”

Chastised, Noctis huffs and stands straighter, shoulders back and head slightly tilted as they face off in an entirely different kind of battle. “Yeah, okay.”

“Consider this part of your physical therapy.”

“Dancing.”

“Better than sparring, if you ask me. Easier on the knees. Grants you an entirely different set of movements to help ease you into more natural fluidity.”

“Iggy’s right,” Gladio calls from across the ballroom. He’s going through the music on Ignis’ phone, frowning at the selection before picking a song at random. “You won’t be good for much if you don’t take it easy.”

“Dancing is hardly easy,” Ignis says over his shoulder, genuinely offended by the remark.

“Take his word for it,” Noctis agrees. “You weren’t there when I trained for Altissia. It was practically boot camp. My feet were bruised for weeks.”

“That’s hardcore,” Prompto says from his spot right across Gladio, the wireless speaker between them.

“Yeah, I hate it.”

Gladio struggles to connect the phone to the speaker but eventually manages it, adjusting the volume before showing Prompto his choice of songs. Prompto shrugs, the titles meaning nothing to him. “Shuffle?”

The first song that comes on is an alarmingly fast-paced waltz that has Prompto intrigued as to how Noctis and Ignis will perform. But above all, he’s interested to see just how well the latest upgrade to the prosthetic will hold.

Ignis is the first to bow, followed by Noctis who doesn’t go as deep as he does, hand tucked against his chest before extending for Ignis to take. Ignis doesn’t miss a beat, delicately placing his palm over Noctis’ with the air of someone who has done this dozens of times.

They walk in synch to the music until they reach the center of the room, half turning until they’re face to face, hand in hand, the other placed respectfully high on their flank.

Noctis leads, and it’s the most breathtaking thing Prompto has ever seen.

He can count on one hand the times he’s seen his best friend dance, and he uses the word lightly. Jam-out sessions in the car aside, only once had they sneaked out to a club the weekend before Noctis’ eighteenth birthday. They didn’t have a very good time.

Other than that, it’s the half-assed wave the two of them do whenever they successfully complete a raid on King’s Knight.

The spectacle before him imbues bits of jealousy in Prompto. He wants to be able to move that way, too, all elegant grace and thinly veiled strength without the need for weapons.

He can see why Gladio would equate it to fighting. The careful give and take of two people moving in tandem without missing a beat, perfect concentration only achieved through invisible links. It’s awe-inspiring, stunning, and trust Ignis to be able to demonstrate raw power in such tight constraints.

The way Noctis moves him across the floor, gently leading him to where they need to be in tune with the music. The way Ignis smiles and Noctis laughs despite his frown, telling Prompto that he somehow messed up but was able to right his mistake, has him feeling afloat in an ocean of emotions he can no longer ignore.

Prompto wonders if he’s been as painfully obvious as Ignis is right now, how he’s surrendering to the arms that lead him with nothing but unbridled trust. The adoration seeping out of him as Ignis’ hand glides up to rest above Noctis’ shoulder, pulling him closer in a hold that is meant for lovers rather than important strangers at a gala.

Prompto wonders what it is about Noctis that makes them all gravitate towards him, but the answer is painstakingly clear. Not one he can put into words, per se, but the mere glimpse of Noctis’ smile makes his heart dance with the same passion he and Ignis currently portray.

“This doing it for you, too?” Gladio asks, close enough to Prompto’s ear to not be drowned out by the music.

“A little bit.” He flashes Gladio a grin. “Can _you_ dance?”

Gladio smirks, shaking his head. “Not as good as they can, anyway. My kind of dancing has less formality to it.”

“Nothing wrong with a lil’ bump and grind.”

“You think Iggy’s good at the waltz,” Gladio says, poking at the phone screen, “you should see him getting down and dirty.”

Prompto can picture it clear as day and the idea is amusing enough to make him take note to ask for a demonstration somewhere down the line. For now, he’s content watching him and Noctis get ready to set the rest of the gala to shame as they set figurative fire to the dancefloor.

“Think Iggy would teach me how to dance?”

“If you ask nicely.”

“Always do.”

Difficult to say whether it’s the music or otherwise, but carefully watching them Prompto sees no tell-tale signs of anything being out of place. Ignis maneuvers himself with the confidence of a man with all of his senses, while Noctis hardly even limps as his shiny shoes tap and slide across the marble floor.

It makes Prompto feel endlessly better and bitter all at once.

He can only offer a superficial fix to one problem, but he’s out of his league when it comes to Ignis. He wishes there was a way to restore Ignis’ sight. But Prompto wishes for a lot of things, the likes of which are beyond his reach.

They slow to a stop once the song comes to an end, but no space enters the solemn quarters between the two of them.

Morning sunlight shines through the ballroom windows, making the room glow with ethereal light. Particles of dust dance to a music all their own in the bright beams, falling until they come to rest upon their hair and shoulders.

Ignis rests his forehead against Noctis’, speaking in tones too hushed for him and Gladio to hear, and Prompto wonders how many more quiet moments they’ve shared since Noctis’ return.

Prompto feels like all the moments in the remainder of his life will never be enough to catch up.

Maybe Ignis feels the same. Maybe so does Gladio.

“I can’t get used to it,” Gladio says, wringing his hands as he gazes at the two men, “seeing him here, I mean.”

“Alive.”

“Hm.” He reaches behind himself to let his hair loose and retie it when too many escaped strands fall into his eyes. “Life’s flippin’ strange.”

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up one day and find that this’s been one messed up dream.”

“So long as it doesn’t turn into a nightmare, I’d be okay with that.”

“Only way I’d be okay with it is if I don’t ever wake up,” Prompto says. He wouldn’t be able to handle another breath were he to open his eyes and find this all to be gone like a puff of smoke.

Gladio turns to him, his amber eyes conveying more kindness than the rest of him does. “Ever wonder what kind of people we’d be were he never a part of us?”

Prompto shudders at the thought. “Nope. Don’t ever want to consider that. Thanks, I hate it.”

A world without light is one not worth living in.

Gladio looks like he wants to say something else but refrains from doing so. Instead, he reaches over to ruffle Prompto’s hair before getting up from his chair and stretching his back. “You still need a haircut.”

“His hair’s fine,” Noctis protests as they approach.

Looking up at him from his spot on the chair, Prompto wants to agree. He’d feel heartbroken if anyone were to shave Noctis’ whiskers. He looks devastatingly hot with a beard.

“I digress.” Ignis steps closer and unceremoniously shoves his hand into Prompto’s hair, tugging at it without mercy. “If you’re going to attend the gala, you should at the very least look presentable.”

“Gladio has long hair and I don’t see you give him shit for it.”

“The length of Gladio’s hair serves a purpose,” Ignis explains.

“So does Prompto’s,” Noctis counters.

There’s a moment in which Prompto can’t figure out exactly what they’re talking about, considering that his hair is the way it currently is due to sheer neglect on his behalf. It’s when Gladio makes a slightly pleasured expression while mock-pulling his own hair that Prompto gets it, face immediately going hot.

Noctis laughs, reaching over to shove Gladio’s shoulder. “You guys are on a whole other level.”

***

Prompto misses running.

Not for his life or towards a fight he knows they will win by the skin of their teeth, but for fun. He misses the burn of his lungs, the heat in his legs that pushes him to go faster, further, propelling him towards attainable goals he has set for himself.

He misses the feeling of bliss once he’s expended all of his stamina, body sagging with the sweet release of endorphins when he’s reached the finish line. It’s a simple act, straightforward, achievable. There are no rules, no expectations aside from those he chooses for himself.

And it’s fun, especially when entwined with all the memories of running he did back in high school. Away from the guards, the teachers, other students, Gladio, and Ignis. The cacophony of laughter that meant nothing but pure joy and unadulterated thrill.

It’s different now, but not entirely. At the age of thirty-five and running down the empty hallways of the Citadel, cackling like a man gone mad as he chases a wayward king who has stolen his brand new camera – it’s definitely different, but also exactly the same.

Noctis has become terrifyingly adept at moving with his prosthetic, only faltering in his step on the off chance the device locks up. Otherwise, he’s hellishly quick, the memory of his home serving to his advantage as he ducks down passages Prompto would have otherwise missed.

“Give it back!”

“Not until I see the pictures!”

Prompto really doesn’t want him to see the pictures.

“I’ll develop them so you can see them better, I swear. Nice and clear. Noct!”

Noctis is standing a good twenty feet away from him as he fidgets with the camera, no doubt taking a moment to learn his way across the latest model. “How bad can they be?”

_Very, very bad_ , Prompto thinks, considering the backlog of photos he’s kept.

He’s taken to printing again, keeping them on hand out of fear of losing them whenever he’s unable to charge the camera battery. The amount of photos he lost during the Ruin still stings, and he had been grateful for the handful of shots he had managed to save from their time prior to Altissia.

However, there is a handful he didn’t have the heart to delete or the courage to print. A lot of them are intimate peeks he snuck of Noctis doing utterly mundane things such as frowning at his vegetables and adjusting the cuff of his suit, or Ignis and Gladio holding hands while out on the balcony overlooking the city.

Granted, he’s taken worse shots throughout his life, a lot more telling ones that were never meant to be even taken, but this feels like a violation of _something_. It feels like having someone else look at them will crumble the fragile fantasy he’s living in.

“This one’s kinda cute,” Noctis says, but immediately takes a step back when Prompto inches towards him. “Looks like Gladio’s picking his nose.”

“That’s gross.”

“You were the one who took the picture.”

“I think he was about to sneeze.”

“ _That’s_ gross.”

“Noct. Come on, man. Just give me the camera.”

“You make it sound like you’ve got nudes in here.” Noctis snorts a laugh at his own comment and continues on his merry search. “Are they of me?”

“If there is, they’re reference shots.”

“For your project or for something else?”

“I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Noctis sticks his tongue out but doesn’t move from his spot, thoughtfully humming his way through the assortment in his hands. “I like this one,” he says, bringing it closer to his face and smiling, “I like it a lot.”

Prompto blinks at him and takes a hesitant step forward. When Noctis doesn’t run off again, he deems it safe to approach him at long last. He looks over his shoulder and down at the small camera screen, laughs when he sees what it is.

It’s a selfie Prompto took in the throne room a couple of days ago. He’s taking up most of the frame, but just out of focus, in the background, Noctis has stopped ascending the staircase to look behind him. Out of context, it seems like Noctis is trying to sultrily seduce his photographer who is too in love with himself to notice.

It’s ridiculous and terrible and Prompto has no idea why Noctis likes it. “Uh, thanks?”

Noctis hands over the camera at long last before turning on his heels. “Can I keep that one?”

“Sure. I’m getting a few developed for the book tomorrow. I’ll throw that one in for you.”

Once inside the suite, Prompto realizes that they’re alone. No Ignis or Gladio in sight, no Glaives, no anybody who is constantly in and out of the quarters for something or another.

The area is dark bar for a single lamp, casting a soft glow across every surface he walks by.

Prompto has half a mind to call it a night and slip into one of the guest rooms, but Noctis is already pulling him by his wrist into his bedroom.

“Where is everyone?”

Noctis shrugs. “The address is in two days,” he says, closing the door behind him. Prompto has to blink repeatedly to get his eyes accustomed to the darkness that is only interrupted by the moon on the other side of the windows. “Feels like everyone’s trying really hard to get settled.”

“Feels like everyone’s nervous,” Prompto corrects.

“Are you?”

“I’m always nervous. I’m just real good at hiding it.”

Noctis stops to stare at him, looking befuddled. “Look at you actually talking about it.”

“Ah. Kinda made myself promise to talk about stuff and things more often. I regretted a lot after you vanished, and I was given two whole opportunities to make it right, but I fucked it up by being too scared.”

They’re both standing in the middle of the bedroom, awkwardly facing each other. Noctis is the first to move away, fingers flexing out of lack of something to do before he decides on removing his suit jacket.

“If we’re talking about feelings tonight, I don’t want to do it dressed like this.”

It’s Prompto’s turn to be confused. “Dressed like what?”

Noctis gestures down at himself. He’s wearing what passes as casual kingly raiment, the pinstripe suit that admittedly makes Prompto a little weak at the knees.

Without another word, Noctis strips down to his boxers and undershirt, carelessly tossing his suit aside.

He gets into his bed and leans back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles and arms resting on the pillow on his lap.

Prompto hones in on the prosthetic and how flexible it must be to grant him that amount of movement. He smiles at a job well-done although there being room for improvement. “Does it still hurt?”

Noctis wiggles his toes and nods. “When I sit,” he admits. “Moving feels better, but any sort of pressure when I’m still makes it painfully obvious.”

“That middle ground’s a bitch to find,” Prompto says, his smile fading.

“I just _ran_ , Prompto. I’ve been sparring, and dancing, and walking. You’ve done a kickass job.”

“But it causes you pain and you can’t do any of those things without it.”

“So?” Noctis gestures Prompto to join him on the bed. “There’s nothing wrong with being able to do things with help.”

Prompto is about to complain but decides against it, approaching the bed with a nod. He slips onto the mattress and leans against the footboard, looking at Noctis expectantly.

If feelings were going to be talked about, they weren’t going to be now. Noctis is looking at Prompto’s knees, as lost for words as he is. “How’s life?” is the best he can come up with, and Prompto shakes his head.

“A mess, but that’s adulthood for ya’.”

“Can relate.”

“Why are you really stepping down from the throne?” The question is out before Prompto’s entirely processed it in his head. If not feelings, then this. But they’re going to talk about something.

Noctis turns his face towards the windows, at the starless sky that is drowned out by skyscrapers that feed Insomnia’s luminosity. “Sometimes I think about the time we spent in Cape Caem. Perfectly good house, and yet we still camped out by the sea.”

A lot of kebabs were eaten on that shore, Prompto remembers. Lots of photos were taken.

“You could see the stars,” Noctis says. “Hell, you could see them anywhere outside of Insomnia.” He shakes his head before brushing hair out of his face. “I mean it when I say Lucis doesn’t need a king anymore.”

“You don’t want to be king,” Prompto says quietly, fearing someone will hear.

“Dying kind of makes you rethink your priorities.”

“Abolish the kingdom, and then what? One eternal road trip until…” Prompto leaves the sentence unfinished. “I want an eternal road trip.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“Eos keeps robbing us of good things,” Prompto says, “sorry if that’s pessimistic of me.”

“I don’t know what I’d do once I take off the crown.” Noctis picks at the pillow, staring out the window with a far-off look in his eyes. “How did you decide on what to do after…? You know.”

Prompto crosses his legs, mimicking Noctis’ position. “I didn’t do much deciding to be honest. People needed help, so I was there. The end. At Hammerhead, well, Cid needed someone to grab parts for him so I took the job.”

“You’re too good for this world.”

If he had a pillow nearby, he would have chucked it at Noctis’ head. “Don’t say those things!”

“I thought we were talking about feelings.”

“Now we’re not. We’re done. We’re talking about something else. Like cats.”

Noctis laughs, but it’s a quiet little sound that is abruptly interrupted by a groan when he attempts to stretch out is legs. The little crease of pain between his eyebrows is enough to spur Prompto into action, scooting across the bed to sit by Noctis’ knee.

He quickly but carefully gets to undoing the contraptions around Noctis’ legs, gingerly removing them for the night. He takes the time to inspect the bruises they have left behind and his stomach churns with the thought that, in one way or another, albeit indirectly, he put those there.

“I’m sorry all this happened,” he says, trying his hardest to ignore the stinging in his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t fix it.”

“Hey, hey, what’s all this about? None of it is your fault.”

Prompto bows his head, hands around Noctis’ right knee. “I’d feel better if it was. Then that’d mean I could try to do something about it.” His thumbs rub circles along the bruised skin, willing with all his might for them to go away.

Noctis is quiet for a long moment, trying his best to speak the words he wants to. “Dad used to say that you can’t change the past, so there was no use mourning it. That the best we could do is worry about tomorrow and making the best out of it, be it by fixing mistakes or making a whole bunch of new ones, but tomorrow will always be there, even when we think it might not be.”

The soft tone of his voice has Prompto’s chest aching, and all he can do is nod. “I’m still reeling over everything. Give me some time to bounce back, yeah?”

“I miss your obnoxious self.”

“It’s buried in here somewhere.”

“Guess it isn’t really obnoxious if I miss it.”

Prompto smirks, the thrashing inside of him calming if only for a moment. “Nah, I’m definitely obnoxious. You just love me too much to let it bother you.”

“You’re not wrong.”

They share a brief glance, a quiet one that has the corner of Noctis’ eyes tilting into a private smile, softening with an emotion Prompto dares not consider. As is, he will take the indirect confirmation and hold it close to his heart.

He focuses on the knee between his hands and digs his fingers into the tender flesh there, making Noctis flinch, but he’s otherwise silent and unmoving as Prompto tries his best to massage the tension out of his muscles.

He loses track of time, fingers tingling the longer he goes at it. Noctis’ skin is warm and soft, minutely shifting under his touch.

“Do you smell that?”

Prompto blinks out of his daze, pausing only momentarily to sniff the air. He does smell it, and whatever it is triggers a phantom melancholy as he tries to name it. “Smells like flowers.”

There’s a flicker of something across Noctis’ face, a mixture of confusion and another emotion Prompto can’t quite place. He lapses into a pensive silence that is almost troublesome, but he eventually sinks back into his pillows with a sigh and a sad smile gracing his cheek.

Noctis takes Prompto’s hand without warning.

He brings it to his face and presses the back of it to his nose, lips ghosting over feverish skin.

Prompto holds perfectly still, aghast by the sudden move.

“That’s weird,” Noctis says, but leaves it at that and returns Prompto’s hand.

“Wha—What is?” He curses the way he stammers, the fluttering in his stomach making him feel fifteen all over again.

“You smell like Sylleblossoms.”

The statement perplexes him, and bringing his own hand up to his nose reveals nothing but a smell he can attribute to cheap soap. But now that Noctis has mentioned it, he can smell it too, just not on his skin. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened.”

Noctis nods. “True that.”

***

Bleak light guides him through the desolate halls of the Citadel.

There is no sound to draw his attention, not even that of his own feet over the marble floors.

He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he felt the need to slip out of Noctis’ room in the dead of night.

There’s a feeling akin to electricity crackling at his fingertips, a jitteriness he can’t attribute to the usual baseline anxiety he’s learned to live with. The smell of blue flowers fills his senses and he can’t sleep, let alone sit quietly while Noctis dreams about things Prompto can’t begin to fathom.

The same feeling of otherness that befell them upon Noctis’ return is back. It may never have left and was otherwise drowned out by the flurry of life they all decided to indulge in instead. However, with the address looming closer and with their lives about to change once more, Prompto can’t help but become hyper aware of his surroundings.

Something is lurking, and he can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Hours slip by as he aimlessly loses himself to the maze of hallways and empty rooms, walking by paintings and statues of rulers past. The history of Insomnia, portraits of the outlands, depictions of the gods and realities Prompto would never have considered if left to his own devices. The Citadel is a museum, richer than any history book he could have possibly read.

He hopes Noctis opens it to the public. That the new reigning government won’t shy away from its history, allowing Lucians to behold the beauty and majesty of their continent.

Prompto stands before the Lucis Caelum crest, the genuine one, not the stylized minimalist design utilized for their resorts, and is overwhelmed by a sense of pride that begins at the very base of his spine.

_I’m a Lucian._

Sometimes it’s easy to forget.

He has served his prince, he has aided his king, and he will forever and always stand by his friend.

Prompto worries what will become of them once they’re out of the job, if Noctis will retire somewhere quiet, away from the city, and if Ignis and Gladio will follow. He wonders what will become of him, if he will return to Hammerhead and work on weapons until the day he dies.

It all seems like too much, and yet not enough. The last chapter has ended, the main story has come to a close, and all they have now is a half-assed continuation where no one quite knows their place yet, or what will happen. There are no guarantees for a happy end or any type of end at all.

The skittering of paws has him looking down a narrow pathway and his heart kicks up, half expecting to see Pryna guiding him to where he needs to be. Instead, he sees an open door that shines brighter than the walls around him.

Inside the room are treasures Prompto could never have imagined, all locked behind glass boxes or hidden behind thick drapes along the walls. The domed ceiling is layered in black velvet, and from the arches, the Lucii look down at him like the outsider he often feels like.

The room is bare but for an elevated platform at the very end, but the arrangement of dust at either side of him tells of rows of seats long since removed.

It’s the stained glass windows that give it away, and Prompto suddenly feels like he should leave. The images tell stories of the ancients, of the Six before Eos was born, of mighty Titan capturing the Meteor upon his shoulders, of Ifrit bringing light to humankind. Shiva and Leviathan, Bahamut and the mighty weapons used to protect them all.

It’s the second time Prompto has ever stepped foot inside a church, this time being the first doing so out of his own volition, although accidentally.

The first time had been during his Crownsguard initiation, as a symbolic request for protection from the gods. He had scoffed it off, an action he had taken back the moment Noctis had used his power to summon them to their aid.

“Mother always instilled in me the courage to question the Astrals,” says a voice that is both familiar and not. “Although their power may be great, although they are meant to protect us, their definition of right and wrong often differs from ours. Eos is shaped by the choices we make while they slumber.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the radiant gold of her hair tied back in an elegant ponytail, the paleness of her skin shining ethereal in the soft lighting of the church.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to question the gods,” he says quietly, afraid that speaking will make her vanish.

“There are a lot of things we aren’t supposed to do. I believe that’s what makes us human.”

Prompto finally turns his head, taking in her profile as she stands by him, hands clasped before her as she gazes up at the empty altar. “I’m dreaming,” he says, accepting this reality as nothing but.

“Perhaps. I feel like you tell yourself that a lot.”

He laughs awkwardly as he scratches the side of his neck, unsure of how to stand, or talk, or even breathe. “It’s nice to be able to talk to you, regardless.”

Lunafreya turns to him with a smile, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally be able to meet you in person, Prompto.”

He takes it, utterly unsurprised by how warm it feels, how undeniably real her presence is. There are a dozen questions he wants to ask, a dozen apologies he wants to mutter, but instead, all he does is squeeze her hand in the same fashion he would Noctis’.

“Too real to be a dream,” he says. “This is crazy.”

“You often say the same about Noctis.” Prompto clenches his jaw, unwilling to accept any other possibility. “There’s no need to worry,” she says, laying a hand over his shoulder, “he is very much alive, and very much him if there is any lingering doubt about that.”

“That’s not what bothers me,” he admits, looking down to where they connect and wondering. Always wondering.

Lunafreya shakes her head, making her hair sway freely around her face. “I’m afraid I cannot give you the answers you seek, but I can tell you this: dear Noctis may have fulfilled his destiny, as I have mine, but we are oftentimes key players to stories that are not our own.”

“He’s been through enough.”

“Would you rather him remain in the afterlife?”

“If…” Prompto swallows around the knot in his throat, hoping to bury that wedge of selfishness that so stubbornly tries to claw its way to the surface. “Was he happy? In the afterlife, I mean. He was with you, wasn’t he?”

Lunafreya’s hands take his in turn, delicately squeezing his fingers as she stands before him with a look that conveys nothing but kindness. “You would lay down your life for his happiness.”

There are so many ways to answer that statement, so he simply nods his head.

“The world is not the cruel place many think it to be,” she says, “Fate is not the monstrous creature we so furiously fight. It took me a very long time to understand that. Once I did, my path became clear.”

“You died. Why wouldn’t you call that cruel?”

“Because death isn’t always a punishment, although it may seem so.” Lunafreya turns his hands palm up, and she dutifully traces patterns he can’t make sense of. “Death is not the end, as you have already seen. Some Ascend, others remain. Either in body or in spirit, we remain.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You needn’t have to, all you must do is continue on.” Releasing his hands, she touches one of hers to his chest. “You are worthy of more than you believe.”

He wants to say that she’s wrong, oh so very wrong, but he doesn’t want to call her a liar. “How are you so sure about that?”

Lunafreya’s smile softens at his incredulity. “Your friends need you as much as you need them. You promised you would remain by Noctis until the very end.”

This he can own up to. “Ever at his side.”

“There is so much more to you than what you can offer your king,” she says, the whimsical tone of her voice firm and unrelenting in the otherwise quiet room. “Never forget that there is a great strength within you, and that not all stories require a fantastical ending to be true.”

Without thinking, Prompto places his hand over Lunafreya’s where it rests over his heart, wishing he could do so much more. He wishes he could bring her with him, show her a world beyond that of duty, beyond the unyielding grasp of fate. He wishes Noctis could see her at least one more time.

“They have seen what lies in your heart,” she reaffirms, her free hand coming up to cup his cheek. “And you are worthy of a great many things. Including his love.”

Prompto’s eyes burn and blur, suddenly not wanting to look away from her. “You deserved so much more.”

“We don’t get to choose what we do and do not deserve.”

“Do the Astrals decide that, too?”

“There are things not even the gods can control.”

Somehow, that revelation eases the scream perched under his chin.

“Can we see you again?”

Lunafreya withdraws from him, touching her chin in a gesture that seems oddly comforting and as intangible as the rest of her. “All you ever have to do is ask.”

With the caress of a source-less breeze, she is gone.

Prompto is left to stand there with a quieted mind and a still heart, a blanket of peace setting his shoulders at ease. The questions have slipped away, doubts and fears assuaged.

The image of her lingers in the room despite her physical absence.

“The hell are you doing up here?” Noctis stands at the door, utterly disheveled in his sweatpants and wrinkled shirt, leaning against his cane. “Heard you talking to yourself.”

“Oh,” Prompto jabs his thumb over his shoulder to gesture the empty space behind him, “It’s, uh, a church, right?”

“Sure is.”

“Figured I’d pay my respects.”

“To the Six?”

“To Luna.”

Noctis blinks at him, all traces of skepticism gone as he struggles to make his way across the carpeted floor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pray.”

“Less praying, more… having a one-sided conversation?”

“Basically what prayer is, if my old man had anything to say about it.”

They stand side by side, looking at the altar.

Prompto is reeling from what he’s just experienced.

“I dream sometimes,” Noctis says somberly, “about things I think I did while I was dead.” He scoffs, the corner of his mouth wryly tipping upward. “Stupid, right? Once you’re dead, you’re dead. Nothing but darkness until you’re back for whatever reason.”

“Did you ever meet up with her?”

“If I did I don’t remember. Like I said, a huge chunk of nothing.”

“What do you dream then?”

Noctis is quiet for a moment. “Flowers. Sitting by the beach. Just peaceful things that aren’t exactly memories, but they feel real enough to be. Sometimes she’s there. Sometimes it’s Ignis, Gladio… you.”

“Sounds like plain ol’ dreams to me.”

“Sometimes I dream about you shouting on a rooftop, demanding I come back like you were the boss of me or something. I can hear you clear as day.”

“Nope, never did that,” Prompto lies. Two months after the funeral he had lost count of the number of times he had done so. He lost complete track of how often he cursed the gods and the kings of old for taking his friend, of how often he cursed himself for not having the guts to tell Noctis every truth he held close to his heart.

Noctis bumps their shoulders together as if to say that he knows the truth behind Prompto’s claim.

“It’s late and I’m tired. You practically slammed the door when you left.”

“Sorry if I’m not about sleeping in an armchair, your majesty.”

“The bed’s big enough for four. I think we can share.”

“Five if we split Gladio into two people, but that’s just my opinion,” he says, following Noctis right back to his bedroom, light on his feet, and feeling like he carries not a single weight on his shoulders.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter to date. Enjoy, folks!

Lunafreya’s visit lingers like a specter he can’t shake off. Everywhere he goes, everything he does, he sees her hovering right out of the corner of his eye. Prompto can’t decide whether it is a good thing or a bad thing; if the conversation served as an omen or a blessing.

The air has changed and it is as unsettling as the sight of hundreds of people gathered outside of the Citadel, impatiently waiting for Noctis to publicly speak for the very first time.

Prompto haunts the highest level of the living chambers, too high up to be seen but high enough to grant him a full view of the immediate sector. The entire city has come to a standstill, its citizens holding a collective breath. He too seems to be holding a breath that grows bigger and bigger, threatening to break his ribs as he tries and fails to let it go.

Despite being unable to see them he knows the Kingsglaive has been mobilized, fortifying each corner and block for miles. What would have been taken as an act of mistrust, the neighboring continents of Lucis have allowed the open display of defense so long as their representatives are treated with the respect they demand.

As the sun crests at noon, Prompto watches the valets pull up at the Citadel’s entrance, escorting ambassadors from far and wide into their home.

Dread drags heavily in his gut, memories of the disastrous armistice bleeding fresh from the news he only heard through radio broadcasts in Galdin Quay.

He tries reminding himself that this is different. The circumstances are different. They are not at war, and what they seek is a solution to hasten the rebuilding of Eos in the wake of the Starscourge. A movement already with steam behind its engine, only now Lucis has joined its ranks with its final act as a kingdom.

Prompto pauses for a moment. If he’s about ready to lose his mind over this, he can only just imagine how Noctis must be feeling. He will have to stand before his entire kingdom, before all of Eos, and both decree his birthright and deliver the culmination of his land.

_This’ll all go well_ , he tries telling himself over and over again, trying his hardest to believe it. All they have to do is survive today. The curious little mantra Ignis introduced him to helps his nerves just enough.

Three knocks behind him are soon followed by the creak of a door, and Prompto turns to see who in their right mind is not currently in the crowd below him.

To his surprise, Ignis steps into the room, followed by Gladio who’s holding on to a decently sized box, both clad in their Kingsglaive uniforms. Lastly, there’s Noctis, decked out in full kingly raiment, whispery silver crown and all.

Before Prompto can ask why in the name of the Six they aren’t getting ready for one of Lucis’ biggest historical moments, Noctis lifts a hand to pause him. “I’m not showing up sans one Glaive,” he offers simply, closing the door behind him.

Gladio delivers the box onto Prompto, a Kingsglaive uniform of his very own folded neatly inside. It isn’t the same one he wore years ago, this one shinier and better-taken care of, crest still in place.

Robbed of words, Prompto’s first thought is that he doesn’t deserve this.

He abandoned his friends when they needed him most, when he needed them most, when they were all kingless in the face of the first dawn in over a decade. He doesn’t feel like he deserves the right to stand by the last king, by the King of Kings, and call himself a Glaive.

“Guys…”

“Not having it.”

“Noct—”

“Nope. You’re coming with. End of story.”

Gladio and Ignis move in unison, a choreographed type of attack that leaves Prompto feeling unbalanced. Much to his surprise, standing behind him, Gladio waits for some sort of permission to remove the vest from his old fatigues he barely managed to slip into. There’s only a moment’s hesitation before Prompto’s shoulders sag in defeat, and he’s tagged teamed out of his clothes.

It’s a lot like standing on ceremony. A slow and steady ritual of being disrobed in front of the boy he’s loved since childhood, the man he swore to stand alongside. Gladio is alarmingly gentle as he peels the layers of old clothing off of him, before Ignis steps in and helps him into his uniform.

All the while, Noctis holds his gaze with unwavering certainty. It’s too overwhelming and Prompto has to look away, but not before Ignis is slipping on his jacket and moving in front of him to do up the silver buttons along his lapel.

Gladio adjusts the jacket around his shoulders, making sure his hair falls over the collar instead of being awkwardly pinned underneath it. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture that makes Prompto shiver, but then Ignis draws his attention by touching his face, using his hands to visualize the expression he’s wearing.

“Come now,” he says, voice warmer than it has any right to be. “You are a vital part of us, Prompto. You know better than to forget that.”

Prompto nods hard enough for Ignis to feel.

Noctis is the last to step forward, holding a pair of gloves in his hands. He reaches for Prompto’s own, unclasping the leather bracelet on his right one. It’s a bit of a struggle, but Prompto stands quietly as Noctis slips the gloves on him with something akin to veneration.

There’s a difference between this and the dozens of times they’ve casually held hands for the sake of comfort. This feels more like a promise Noctis is willing to express, and very well keep.

Gloves on, Noctis brings both of his hands up and presses a fleeting kiss to them, leaving Prompto breathless in the ruthless sunlight.

“I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.”

Words gone, all Prompto can do is cry. The tears escape before he can even realize they’re there, and just like that he’s being pulled into a hug that has him shivering. He shouldn’t really sob into Noctis’ fancy cloak out of fear of getting snot on it, but Noctis holds on tight to him, his breath tickling the shell of his ear.

Ignis is there, somehow holding them both with a smile sweet enough to melt Prompto’s newfound armor. As for Gladio, he does his best at rustling Prompto’s hair and gripping Noctis’ shoulder, paying attention to not mess up any meticulously placed accessories.

“You guys are way too much,” Prompto says around a hiccup, trying to rub the tears away around an airy laugh. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

“I think the same all the time,” Noctis says, looking at the three of them like all the treasure in Eos would pale in comparison.

Prompto wonders why he ever doubted it, why he ever hesitated. “Aw, man. I fucking love you guys,” he says, nearly squawks when Gladio yanks him against his chest, pressing an aggressive kiss to his temple. “Gross, Gladio cooties.”

Noctis pulls away with a laugh that warms the pit of Prompto’s stomach, an unspoken promise that everything might just be alright.

“Let’s go before Cor has our asses for being late,” Noctis says, marching across the room with his head held high, plucking his cane from the basket by the door.

It’s only then that Prompto realizes how well he’s walking without assistance. He hasn’t made much of a modification on the prosthetic, but it seems like whatever he’s done to it has made a world of difference.

With a determined nod and his friends by his side, Prompto marches out of the room with them, ready to face whatever future may come.

***

Sharing most of his teenage years with Noctis has granted Prompto ample opportunities to be proud of him. Graduation, for example, had him standing up and cheering from a crowd of bored students as the principal granted him his diploma. Or that first interview for a job he hated but landed right from the get-go. Or when he got his driver’s license.

Standing at attention, hands behind his back before the thousands of Lucians who have gathered at and around the Citadel, in front of the dozens of cameras televising the moment, Prompto felt more of that same sense of pride.

Noctis stands at the podium with every last ounce of grace and power he can muster as the rightful king, delivering each word with authority and elegance as the masses fall quiet before him. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate, speaking words that are in no way scripted, a blatant deviation of what he and Ignis had worked so hard to put down.

Rather, Noctis speaks from the heart, of his hope to see his people stand once more and shine brighter than the star they were birthed from. He speaks of unity and peace, of tolerance for sins done under the orders of tyrannical rulers before this time. He spins gratitude for the opportunity they have been given, for the new start they are grasping. They all stand here beneath the same star: Lucis, Niflheim, Accordo, and Galahd, and they will strive for an Eos brighter than before.

For one terrifying moment there is nothing but silence, but that is soon interrupted by a cheer from the crowd that quickly evolves into a triumphant roar.

The people of Lucis herald the arrival of a new era as King Noctis Lucis Caelum proclaims the transition from monarchy to a new system for all, in which the masses may no longer bow to a king, but rise towards an equal ground.

In all honesty, Prompto’s impressed by Noctis’ newfound ability to wax poetic, but he’ll cut him some slack. He’s doing a bang-up job for a guy would have done anything to weasel himself out of a group presentation.

***

Ignis, as always, is right.

The gala has done nothing more than bore Prompto out of his mind as he stands guard, meandering through the Citadel to keep obnoxious paparazzi out and starry-eyed ambassadors in.

At such close quarters, it is easy to see the way people stare at Noctis whenever he walks by, itching to reach out and touch just to make sure he’s real. There are whispers about the things he did, about how it was him who brought the light back to Eos, how the Astrals saw him gleam brighter than the stars themselves and granted him return to the human plane.

A lot of the rumors aren’t too far off target, and Prompto goes about gathering them for later discussions and laughs. Seeing grown men and women stumble over their feet in starstruck awe is hilarious.

Noctis has discarded his outer robes and instead spends his evening donning his suit, an untouched glass of champagne a permanent fixture on his hand to make himself seem approachable. It works a little too much when people continuously flock to him, batting their eyelashes and coquettishly laughing at something or another.

“I gotta up my game,” Gladio says.

“I dunno. Think you can beat King of Kings? Restorer of Light? Or, my favorite, Savior of Eos?”

“Is that what they’re calling him now?”

Prompto smiles crookedly. “Apparently no one ever got really specific about what Noct actually did. Didn’t really go beyond _went down fighting to restore the dawn_. A lot of these people weren’t even aware he survived the armistice.”

“Huh.”

“Makes you wonder about all the other unsung heroes out there.”

Gladio crosses his arms, watching as Noctis and Ignis converse amicably with a Niflheim official. Across from them, Libertus patiently waits beside a woman Prompto has never seen before, her outfit standing out in a sea of designer suits and dresses.

“Galahd?” Prompto says.

“Apparently. Spur of the moment sort of deal. No one was aware they were even on the map anymore.”

Noctis had mentioned Galahd as one of the four continents, but Prompto had just assumed he was trying to be inclusive. Last he had heard, the island nation was nothing but a landscape of ruin in the wake of the darkness.

“Maybe a res publica will benefit them in the long run. Easier trade routes, better cultural exchanges, all that good stuff. With the Nifs onboard, imagine the complete revamping of freaking everything that’s going to happen.” He turns to find Gladio looking down at him with a hint of thinly veiled wonder. “What? What is it?”

“You never fail to surprise me, blondie.”

“Looks and brains. No one ever said those were mutually exclusive. Or Ignis specific.”

“Learn something new every day.”

The woman from Galahd bows before Noctis when she’s finally given the chance and Noctis is gracious enough to kiss her hand. Prompto’s never seen him do that, with anyone, and the spot on his own hand tingles with the memory from earlier.

“It’s an antiquated tradition from Galahd,” Gladio says, and the knowing tone of his voice makes Prompto twitch.

“What is?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Noct’s a grown ass man capable of making his own decisions.”

“He is.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re not.”

Okay, so maybe he’s a little bit jealous, but not over a kiss on the hand. Prompto wishes he could be among the crowd as a part of it, rather than stand on the outside looking in. He knows he isn’t alone, that beside him Gladio is enacting his role as the King’s Shield and removing himself from the social aspect of the evening. But Prompto wishes he could pull off a nice suit, strut across the glimmering floor and flirt with all of the pretty people around him.

He wishes he could raise a toast to Noctis, knock it back without a care as the world envies their closeness. He wishes he could dance with Ignis, advisor or not, giggling as he’s dipped with the utmost grace. He wishes he could just walk around, arm looped around Gladio’s simply because he can.

He wishes, wishes, and wishes. Always wishes.

“I’m not,” he reaffirms, and he means it.

The four of them are alive, all standing in a room with absolutely nothing keeping them apart. Social expectations can get fucked considering Noctis won’t be king for much longer.

They are _alive_ , and there is nothing he cannot do at this precise moment in time.

Prompto’s thought of _fuck it_ is all that matters as he reaches over and loops his arm around Gladio’s. He stands straight, hoping to at least represent the Kingsglaive in a chivalrous fashion, and holds his head high as they stand there for all to see.

Beside him, Gladio snorts but grants his posture some slack to accommodate their height difference. To Prompto’s pleasant surprise, he lays a hand over his and holds it there, amidst the crowd, among every pair of eyes that crosses their path.

“Finally grew a pair, huh?” Gladio says.

“Cut it out, man. I’m trying.”

“You should tell him.”

Prompto is about to ask _what about_ purely on instinct but stops himself before he even opens his mouth. He doesn’t want to edge Gladio on the subject and now doesn’t feel like the time to play into the role he’s adopted for himself since his teenage years. “I will. Eventually.”

“You’re on a roll today.”

“Gotta grow up sometime, yeah.”

“You know what they say about growing up versus growing old.”

“Would still ride a neon green chocobo into battle.”

“There’s the Prompto I know.”

“I wasn’t made aware we had lost him,” Ignis says, materializing beside Gladio like magic. “What did I miss?”

“Oh, you know, just me being a badass adult and talking about feelings.”

Ignis shakes his head, fighting back a smile. “When one is as expressive as you are, words are oftentimes unneeded to convey feelings.”

“I agree with Iggy.”

“Stop being mean to me.”

“We’re hardly being mean,” Ignis says. He idly touches the buttons of his coat, lips pressed together into a thoughtful line. “Since we’re being open about feelings, we may as well.”

“I don’t think here’s the best place, dude.”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

Prompto steps closer to Gladio, wondering if he too is sharing this bizarre openness to the concept of being unstoppable solely because they are alive. It’s a refreshing way to revert to how they used to be before their time together took a turn for the worst. Things were never quite the same after Altissia, considering how quickly everything transpired, making them unable to catch up and make amends.

Now, they are here. All four of them. And that truth crushes Prompto’s heart in the best way possible.

“I always tried too hard, huh,” Prompto says.

“You tried your hardest,” Ignis replies, and the context of the statement carries a whole new world of meaning. “You tried your best, and it was good enough.”

“Nope, not gonna cry.”

“We cannot change what has happened, but damn if we can’t make the best out of what lies ahead of us.”

“Damn straight,” Gladio says, shuffling his feet with newfound energy.

“Oh how the tables have turned,” Prompto says, mildly disbelieving. To be on the receiving end of a pep talk is brand new and wholesome, and he can definitely get used to it. “All we gotta do is live another today.”

“Precisely.”

“Whatever you three are talking about,” Noctis says as he approaches them, deftly abandoning his glass to an aimless tray that walks by, “I don’t like it. You look like you’re ready to fight something.”

“We’re ready to fight for your virtue,” Prompto says.

Ignis snaps his fingers. “Did we not discuss this already?”

“We decided Prompto was the one with no virtue,” Gladio clarifies.

“Ah, yes.”

“I thought we weren’t going to be mean to me!”

Noctis blinks between them, confused yet amused. He looks down to where Gladio and Prompto are joined and raises his eyebrows. “You two a thing now?”

“No,” says Prompto just as Gladio says, “Yes.”

This garners a laugh that is disguised as a cough from Ignis, who puts two steps between him and them. “Lack of communication is detrimental to any relationship.”

“This coming from the guy who gave me the silent treatment for a week when I accidentally blew up his Ebony,” Prompto says.

Ignis remains silent only for a moment, then, “I wasn’t aware we were in a relationship, to begin with.”

“Kind of feels like we all were,” Noctis muses with a shrug.

“Practically married,” Gladio says.

“I never reaped any sort of benefit from this supposed marriage,” Ignis points out, vaguely waving a hand between the four of them.

“Guys, is this even a conversation we should be having where everyone can hear?” Prompto steals a glance around them, mildly anxious about the people who continue to gravitate towards Noctis.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want all of Eos to learn how big a…”

“How big a _what_?” Noctis dares Gladio to finish that sentence, and he would have had it not been for the “your majesty” that chimed in from behind him.

They watch Noctis turn to the man they immediately recognize as Accordo’s brigadier general, immediately falling quiet out of respect and years of training.

Much to their collective surprise, Noctis greets him, then gracefully transitions into introducing each of them individually, by name, position, and lastly, referring to them as his personal confidants.

***

Not a week after the public address, a private hearing is held to honor the commencement of the Republic of Lucis. In the presence of twenty representatives, Noctis signs the documents that forfeit his kingdom to the people.

The lack of fanfare is a welcome change to the constant publicity and clamoring of the masses.

Aside from the representatives, thirteen witnesses stand, Prompto among them.

It’s bittersweet to watch Noctis listen to the notary’s detailing of the legal proceedings, as well as the laws he has requested be set into motion upon his resignation. Laws set to be debated on in the coming months before the first of the polling takes place.

The system sounds bizarre and unachievable, a plebe’s dream, but Prompto supposes change has to start somewhere. He trusts in the people Noctis and Ignis have carefully selected for the positions of acting officials until further measures are drawn, several of them survivors of King Regis’ court.

One last signature and the world lifts from Noctis’ shoulders.

Rather than bowing, the notary reaches across the desk and shakes his hand.

The ritual that follows holds more cultural significance than any sort of legal ground, as Cor stands before Noctis with a glass box. Its interior is covered in black velvet, gold foil decorating its edges.

“As the last King of Lucis, I hereby retire the crown of my forefathers.” Reaching up, Noctis carefully removes the silver crown tucked just above his right ear. Stepping forward, he places it within the box. “May this mark the end of an era two millennia in the making, and give birth to a new land accessible to all.”

The box closes with one final click, and thus ends the reign of the one-hundred-and-fourteenth king.

***

“So, Noct, you gonna tell me what your secret is?”

“What secret?”

Prompto nudges the tip of his boot against Noctis’ leg while they ride the elevator back up to the suites. “That isn’t my contraption.”

Noctis flexes his legs, bending his knees from one side to the other. “Surprise. No contraption at all.” He brings a leg up to pat along it, revealing nothing but the sound of his hand against fabric. “Every morning I get up feeling better and better.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know, right?” He hops twice, showing off his range of mobility. “Those massages are really working.”

Somehow Prompto doubts his nightly massages are the answer here given he doesn’t know the first thing of actual massage therapy. Mostly he just squeezes and rubs where Noctis tells him to, figures he’s doing a good job whenever Noctis makes noises that shouldn’t be heard outside of the bedroom.

It creates a whole new world of frustration for Prompto, but if it makes Noctis feel better, if it helps him walk better, he’s more than willing to put up with a cold shower after Noctis has fallen asleep.

“Any pain, awkward jerking?”

Noctis shakes his head. “My legs get tired after a while, kind of like going into stasis. But the more I’m on my feet the longer I’m able to walk around.”

“I’m sure not looking a gift spiracorn in the mouth,” Prompto says, reaching to scratch the back of his head. The relief he feels is monumental, and he could probably take on the world feeling like this.

“Please don’t.”

The elevator seems to take forever.

Prompto opts to lean against one of the railings, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watches the buttons light up in their slow crawl upward. Noctis mirrors him, plunging into the realm of his own thoughts as he idly sways to the muted hum of machinery.

“We’re at the bridge,” Prompto says.

“I know.”

“Time for plans were, like, yesterday.”

“I know, I know.”

“Although, I guess there’s no pressure now, is there?”

Noctis rests his head back against the elevator wall, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re not wrong.”

“Never am.”

Once the elevator dings and they’ve made their way across the maze-like hallways, Noctis stops feet away from the main door. Dressed in nothing but his suit, he’s more reminiscent of the prince Prompto spent most of his days with years ago rather than the king he was four hours ago.

“I’ve been thinking, actually…” Noctis awkwardly kneads his own shoulder, looking down at his shoes. Prompto waits. He doesn’t crack any jokes, just waits for Noctis to gather his thoughts. “Maybe we should hit the road again.”

The suggestion is wholly unsurprising, but hearing Noctis say it aloud lights the tiniest of flames under Prompto’s feet.

It takes a great deal of effort to not suggest taking off right now. Ignis and Gladio are only a door away, and he has no doubt that they’d be willing to drop it all and go.

“If it’s what you want,” he says instead, still managing to sound appropriately supportive despite his brimming excitement.

“I miss fishing.”

“Just the fishing?”

“And driving around, seeing the sights.”

“Lucis has changed a lot. There’re new outposts everywhere, cities popping up like wildflowers; it’s crazy! You’ll love it.”

“I bet I will.”

“We should hit all the usual spots, like Galdin Quay, and Lestallum! Damn, I bet Holly would lose her mind if she were to see you. Don’t even get me started on Talcott. Kid’s gonna freak—”

Noctis closes the gap between them, his hands drifting down to Prompto’s waist and pulling him close until no space is left between their bodies.

Be it the gesture or the proximity, Prompto isn’t sure, but one of them knocks the wind right out of him, making the words die on his tongue as Noctis brings their foreheads together.

Time grinds to a screeching halt and suddenly there is no tomorrow, no yesterday, no lifetimes to plan and no road trips to consider. All that is and ever will be narrows down to the little bubble they stand in, where the air that Prompto takes into his lungs is the very breath Noctis exhales through slightly parted lips.

If this is a dream Prompto hopes to never wake, and if this is the afterlife he prays to never return to the realm of the living. Years of yearning, of silent longing, and lonely pining overflow as he brings a hand up to cradle the side of Noctis’ face, pressing closer and clinging for all that he’s worth.

Not even the Astrals can enter here.

If the Six want him back Prompto is willing to burn down entire nations, wage a one-man war against the gods of old to keep him. There is no force within this realm or the next that can take Noctis away from him, not again. Not ever.

“Breathe, you dummy.”

Prompto shakes his head, moving his hand just enough to latch onto Noctis’s hair. “You want me to breathe you’re gonna have to give me mouth-to-mouth.”

Noctis’ hands on his waist trail upward, fingertips digging into the muscles of his back with wicked intent.

“That blows, cause I never got certified for that.”

Much to Prompto’s eternal despair, Noctis presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose before untangling himself from him with an impassive look.

“Dude, you can’t be serious.” But all Noctis does is wink at him before vanishing beyond the door, a sea of voices slipping past it only momentarily. “I can’t believe this!”

Trust him to be the biggest tease in all of history.


	19. Chapter 19

The question of whether or not to remain in Insomnia is answered quickly and silently, with agreeable nods all around an empty dining room table. Noctis presents the notion late in the night of the signing, after drinks are had with close friends and allies. There had been no hesitation in his voice as he asked them to come with him.

A dozen other questions go unspoken. They will make it up as they go.

However much Ignis would have preferred to stay in the Crown City until after the polling took place, he accepts that there is little he can do. It is now out of their hands, and the best that they can do is submit their ballots when the time comes. He decides to leave his number at the main offices in case they ever need any sort of input.

“They’re never going to call you,” says Gladio.

“I know.”

They have been given all the time they need to pack any personal belongings they do not want donated, auctioned, or destroyed. Noctis leaves it all. There is nothing he wants to bring with him, asserting that he’s got everything he needs. He would much rather travel light.

Their departure is a quiet affair, just as it had been the first time.

It’s a sunny morning in Insomnia. The sun shines down on them as they make their way out of the Citadel, loading the bare essentials the rest of them have chosen to bring into the back of a small car. They move at their leisure with no pressing matters to tend to, no impending doom swinging dangerously over their heads.

“Feels weird,” Gladio says, shutting the trunk. “Heading out again after so long. Kind of wanna say I’m too old for this.”

“We aren’t even in our prime yet.” Noctis throws a bag at him, which he catches with ease. “Think of it as a vacation.”

“Let’s see how long that’s gonna last.”

One last walk through the Citadel’s labyrinthine hallways and Noctis decides that he’s done. There’s a quiver in his voice as he says so, casting the throne room one last look over his shoulder.

His destiny fulfilled, his role is done.

“You okay there, buddy?”

Noctis nods his head, resting a hand on Prompto’s shoulder as they head back out again. He’s using his cane, but no one seems to notice it.

“I met Iggy here,” he says. “Wasn’t even in school yet when Dad asked him to take care of me.”

“You two got a lot of history.”

“Half of which I don’t even know.”

Prompto doesn’t slow his pace, trusting Noctis to keep up. “Ask him sometime. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” The fingers on his shoulder tighten. “Goes without saying.”

“It’s been so long since it all happened.”

“Never too late to address the unaddressable.”

“Guess you’re right.”

“And this is where I first met King Regis,” Prompto says with a smile. “Man, I was so nervous I thought I was gonna fuck up _breathing_.”

“You almost forgot to bow on the way out.”

“I know! I felt underdressed even in my fatigues.”

“The things we worried about then, huh.”

Prompto places a hand at the center of Noctis’ back, and it’s amicable enough to not garner strange looks from the few officials roaming the halls. “I want time to be simple again. Like they were back in high school when all we had to worry about were exams and getting dates for the dance.”

“You don’t think it could be?” Noctis sounds hopeful despite the soft timbre of his voice, the years of exhaustion and loss weighing down on his frame like a man at the end of his life.

“I don’t think anything will ever be simple again,” Prompto confesses. He pushes open the front doors, waves at Ignis and Gladio as they stand waiting by the car. “Too much baggage.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Prompto?”

Prompto scoffs. “It’s hard to be optimistic when the gods keep fucking you over. They took so much away, who’s to say they won’t keep doing it?”

“This time we’re not going to let them.” The hard edge of Noctis’ words puts Prompto’s hairs on end. “I’m taking back what’s mine.”

“You just gave up your throne.”

“I like to believe I’m more than just a title.”

Prompto steals a glance at him, somehow eased by the conviction he sees in the set of Noctis’ jaw. “You will always be a king to a lot of these people. I don’t think anyone will forget the things you did.”

“I can live with that.”

“What are you taking back?”

“Our right to live.”

“I like that,” Prompto says, easing their way down the steps. “I like that a lot.”

Before they leave they are stopped by the same young woman who drove Prompto back to Hammerhead what feels like forever ago. Divested of her Kingsglaive uniform she approaches Prompto with a lopsided smile that is mostly stiff and awkward on her face but meant to be genuine.

She opens her mouth but no words come out, so she shakes her head and offers her hand instead.

Prompto laughs, taking it and giving it a shake. “That’s the mood, to be honest.”

“Sorry. Words aren’t really my strong point. Libertus is usually the one that does the talking on behalf of the Kingsglaive.”

“Where is Libertus? I haven’t heard him about for quite a while,” Ignis says, stepping closer to her and Prompto. Gladio and Noctis hover.

“On his way to Galahd to oversee the restoration effort. Along with the ambassadors, he has a great deal of faith on the treaties. Here’s to hoping they stick with the paradigm shift.”

“Acting command will see that they do,” Noctis says reassuringly.

Skie turns to him, mouth sealed shut, and it’s then that Prompto realizes he’s the reason for her unsettled nervousness. It’s endearing to see someone who was ready to kick Prompto’s ass fumble at the sight of his best friend.

After a moment’s staring that led to scattered amusement among them, Skie clears her throat and pushes her sunglasses up her nose.

“I wanted to see you guys off,” she says at long last, testing the lack of formality. “On behalf of the Kingsglaive, I thank you all for your service.”

“We ought to be the ones thanking you,” Gladio says.

“There would be no need for us without the four of you, Captain.” Skie pats her hips before stopping and sucking in a breath. “I’m sure you will get a more official letter of thanks because right now all I have is an assortment of testimonies I can’t remember and I’d rather not make an ass of myself right here and now.”

She extends a hand for Gladio to take, to which he firmly shakes, before moving on to Ignis.

Standing before Noctis, her hand twitches, but instead she folds it over her middle and bows low with an air of reverence Prompto has scarcely ever seen. “Your Majesty,” she says.

She startles to find Noctis holding out his hand for her to shake. Thoroughly perplexed at being caught off guard, Skie takes it, squeezes hard as she regains her bearings.

“Thank you,” he says.

She answers with a genuine smile, “Don’t mention it.”

It’s as they watch her walk away that they notice the wall of people at the entrance of the Citadel. What they mistake for civilians are none other than the remaining Kingsglaive sans their issued uniforms.

They are an impressive number, and Prompto doesn’t recall ever seeing so many of them in the same place at the same time, not even in Lestallum or the scattered outposts that had been blessed with power during the Ruin.

They all fold their arms and bow, the gesture conveying louder than words the depth of their gratitude.

Gladio murmurs into Ignis’ ear what is happening.

Noctis is blindsided by the open demonstration before him, visibly shaken as he swallows hard against whatever emotion must currently be manifesting within.

Prompto can’t help but think how any other person in Noctis’ shoes would have reacted. King or not, Noctis is a quiet soul who is easily overcome by emotions he would much rather keep to himself. Outside of his immediate friend group, it’s easy to mistake him as aloof, maybe even uncaring, but the way he stands now reminds Prompto of a wayward child receiving praise he wasn’t even aware he deserved.

There is relief in his eyes, hope in the curve of his mouth, and acceptance in the way he bows his head in return.

Regis would have been proud.

***

“Nyx Ulric.”

“What?” Gladio says from his spot in the passenger seat.

Behind the wheel, Noctis takes the turnoff onto the bridge and out of Insomnia. “The Glaive,” he says. “Wasn’t he from Galahd?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

In the backseat, Ignis shifts beside Prompto. “I believe so. What brings him to mind?”

Both hands on the steering wheel, Noctis briefly spreads out his fingers. “He should’ve been honored.”

“A lot of people should have been honored.” Gladio runs a hand through his hair, trying to make himself comfortable in the tiny car. He keeps moving his legs around and fumbling with his seatbelt. “Here’s to hoping that gets fixed as soon as possible.”

“How do you honor the dead?” Noctis asks, and the question lulls them back into silence.

“By doing what they would have done were they alive,” Prompto offers.

He knows Noctis wants to ask, but he doesn’t.

The conversation is dropped when the radio turns to static, and Prompto watches gleaming skyscrapers give way to desert through the car window.

***

“Lookit what the cat’s dragged in!”

Getting out of the car, Prompto is the first to greet Cindy with a high five.

“How are things, boys?”

His answer is a lopsided grin before Gladio shoves him out of the way to shake Cindy’s hand with a smile so suave Prompto slumps in defeat. Oh, to be as charming as him.

Ignis pats him on the back for support. “There, there, Prompto.”

“Nice to see y’all back in town. Anything I can do ya’ for?”

“Figured we could use a pit stop before we hit the road,” Noctis says, standing beside Gladio with crossed arms.

Cindy looks from Gladio, to Noctis, to Prompto, then right back at Noctis. Gears visibly turn in her head as she tries to put two and two together, she cocks her hip to the side and whistles. “Well, I’ll be, Majesty. You up on your own two feet.”

“Please, don’t… don’t call me that.”

“Old habits, sugar.”

“I’ll settle for sugar.”

“Prom here hasn’t filled me in on nothing in weeks,” she says, thwacking her hand against Prompto’s bicep. “Too busy to give ya’ girl a call, eh?”

Prompto rubs at the spot she’s hit, sheepishly chuckling. “More or less.”

Gladio tuts. “Rule one of keeping a woman,” he says and is, in turn, punched on the arm by Prompto. “Hey, you were the one asking for pointers.”

Cindy is shaking her head, amused out of her wits. There’s a softness in her eyes that will never be verbally addressed, he knows this by now, and he’s okay with it. Their friendship is fine just the way it is.

“Boy’ll never have it in him to properly court a miss.”

“Do you people get off on being mean to me or something?”

“It’s because we like you,” Ignis finally chimes in as he crosses the garage and heads straight for the shop, Ebony clearly on the mind.

“Iggy speaks for himself,” Noctis says.

“You’ll break his poor little ol’ heart,” Cindy says, poking Prompto on the side.

“You guys all suck.”

The pit stop takes longer than they had anticipated when Cid joins them and they take up a booth in the diner, feasting on burgers and fries and milkshakes. Pinned between Ignis and Cindy, Prompto hums contently as she and Gladio get invested in a heated argument on the best outdoor gear there is.

Rich, considering Prompto’s never seen her hiking, let alone camping.

Cid drifts in and out of the diner, not really talking, but still a familiar presence that proves oddly welcoming.

“Where you boys headed?”

“Haven’t the slightest yet,” Noctis answers, spearing the last fries on Ignis’ plate and shoving them in his mouth. “We were thinking about Galdin Quay first, and then see where the wind takes us.”

“Either that or Lestallum,” Ignis says, “for old times’ sake.”

“Well if ya’ ever in Lestallum say hello to Holly for me. Been a while since I’ve spoken to my girl.”

“Garage got you busy?” Noctis says.

“Among other things.”

“Like Prompto?”

“Mm, kid’s a handful.”

“Am not,” Prompto grumbles into his drink, narrowing his eyes at Noctis who looks way too complacent and up to no good. “If anything I’ve been a great help around these parts.”

Cindy barks out a laugh. “In the past couple’a months, sure.”

“Lies and slander.”

“Fast learner, I’ll give him that. Blew up a couple’a things, but that’s to be expected. At this point, you can’t really work this garage unless something’s on fire.”

“Sounds exciting,” Ignis says.

“Sure is.”

“Cid appreciated the business I brought in,” Prompto says in a feeble attempt to defend himself. “Hunters from all over Lucis showed up for me to get my hands on their weapons.”

“Oh, I bet they did,” Noctis says, his tone a little too suggestive.

Prompto gapes at him. “Noct!”

“You’re the one boasting your services.”

“On weapon mods!”

“Sure.”

“Cindy, tell him.”

“He means it in the least sexy way possible,” Cindy says, nodding in solidarity. “Mostly ‘cause he’s a damn lousy lay and nobody in their right noggins would pay for it.”

Ignis has the audacity to outright laugh out loud as Noctis chokes on his drink, Gladio cracking up loud enough to draw the attention of the only other booth currently occupied.

Prompto feels his face grow hot all the way up to the tip of his ears, and he hates that he needs no words to confirm or deny the accusation.

“How do you know he’s lousy?” Noctis ventures while trying to gather himself, despite the corners of his mouth trying and failing to remain flat.

“She’s not answering that.”

“Boy takes forever to tighten a nut unless he done has a power drill in his pretty lil’ hands,” she says, and Prompto could melt into the booth in sheer relief. “If that ain’t a testament to how he does the dirty—”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Prompto loudly announces, trying his hardest to shove Cindy out of the booth so he can run away.

On the other side of him, Ignis hums thoughtfully. “Actually, his predisposition to take his time may be a good indicator in regards to his stamina.”

“Shiva, help me.”

“Can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing,” Gladio says.

“For you, or the average population?”

“Both.”

“I really need to pee.”

“Hold it.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Why do we always end up talking about sex?” Noctis says, taking a sip of his shake once he’s calmed down enough to do so without choking.

“S’what happens when you’re a virgin,” Gladio says.

Cindy stabs the spinach on her plate and waves it in Gladio’s general direction. “Don’t know ‘bout the rest of y’all, but at least two people here sure ain’t.”

“I _knew_ it,” Noctis says with a laugh, pushing his plate away and shaking his head as he stares right at Prompto. “You scoundrel.”

Prompto blinks, wishing he could phase through the red vinyl of the booth and into the ether. “Subject change, please?”

“Just ‘cause I like you,” Cindy announces, finally giving in and slipping out of the booth. “Cid and I got a surprise for you boys.”

The sun has dipped beneath the horizon by the time they head outside, dusk still clinging to the dusty canyons around them. The first smattering of stars are beginning to emerge, cutting across the sky in a river of deep lilac.

The temperature drops by the minute and Prompto has to rub his hands along his arms to keep warm.

In all honesty, the surprise isn’t all that surprising when Cindy leads them to a structure that is unmistakably a car under a cloth cover. The surprise lies when she pulls it back to reveal a beauty that nearly robs Prompto of his breath.

For a split second, he swore it was the Regalia despite knowing the impossibility of it. Still, his heart raced a little faster.

“Call it a parting gift,” Cindy says, gesturing to the car with a grand motion. “Knew it was only a matter ‘a time before the open road called y’all again. Glad I was able to finish her up on time.”

Unlike the junkers they tend to fix up, this car is a league all its own. It’s big, the interior spacious and upholstered with the best leather Prompto has seen at the shop in years. The glossy paint job is a gleaming black that catches the last burst of light of the day, her rims a stunning silver. It’s without a doubt the most luxurious looking creation to have rolled out of Hammerhead since the Regalia herself.

“It’s gorgeous,” Noctis says, running his hands along the hood. “Like, really gorgeous.”

“She ain’t the ol’ girl but I hope she serves you just as well.”

Prompto sticks his head in through the window and inhales the new car smell, wonders how they managed that when not even the frame is a relatively new model. Gladio follows suit, touching the car as one would touch a lover.

No more cramped spaces for him.

“Gosh, Cindy. You really outdid yourself this time,” Prompto says, taking a peep at the engine and marveling at the curious assortment of salvaged parts. “How fast?”

“Heckin’ fast if you keep the oil fresh. Best MPG I could possibly muster on a short notice. Stop by some other time and I might have an even better upgrade.”

Ignis runs his gloved hands over the frame, navigating the curve and dips until his fingers find the door handle to the passenger seat. “I call shotgun.”

“But I’m always shotgun,” Prompto whines, slamming the hood shut. “Wait, does that mean I get to drive?”

“No,” Gladio, Ignis, and Noctis say in unison.

“My old ass has a driver’s license, now. Just fyi.”

“They must have given them out during the Scourge,” Gladio says, dodging another punch to his arm with a laugh.

“Prom here likes to go fast,” Cindy says. “Unfortunately, this girl ain’t got the power for his type of fast just yet.” Snapping her fingers, she throws Prompto a set of key. “Fixed it up for ya’.”

Prompto lights up when he realizes what it is she’s talking about. “Aw, yeah!”

The others watch as Cindy rolls out Prompto’s motorcycle, and Prompto himself can’t believe it’s the same machine that took him across Lucis.

The frame is the same, but the engine is relatively more compact while mounted on the exterior. The shiny black is now adorned with stylized blue flames crawling across its sides. Its rims have a darker blue detailing on them that match the tinting of the headlights.

“Hot damn,” Gladio says, soon followed by a whistle. “That is one nice bike.”

“Too cool for you,” Noctis shoots at him. “Prompto might be able to pull it off, though.”

“Hell yeah, I can.”

“Figured you had no need for a sidecar anymore,” Cindy explains, giving up on trying to get him to tell why he ever had one installed in the first place. “She can haul a solid one-fifty on the highway if ya’ know how to handle her.”

Prompto can barely contain his excitement. “Fuck me.”

“If we call it a night soon we might be able to leave at daybreak,” Ignis says as if reading Prompto’s sudden need to leave right now just so that he can test it out. “It might give us the opportunity to properly decide where we’re headed.”

Gladio agrees with him, and so does Noctis, albeit reluctantly at the thought of being up so early.

“I could so sleep in that backseat,” he says, walking circles around the car.

“Among other things,” Ignis quips.

Noctis smirks but doesn’t comment on it, side-eyeing the bike instead. “Trust you to get a motorcycle rather than a car.”

“You know me.” Unable to help himself, Prompto swings a leg over the seat and straddles the machine. Turning over the ignition, it purrs to life underneath him, and vibrations hit every single sweet spot from his thighs all the way up his spine. “I like it fast and hard.”

Noctis’ expression is unreadable but the way he shifts his posture, hips tilted to the side and arms crossed over his chest is enough to tell Prompto what he’s thinking. It’s a tight line they have both been walking for a while now, and damn is he doing his hardest to push it to the point of snapping. He likes to call it revenge for all the sweet little noises Noctis makes whenever he works on massaging his legs.

“You heathen,” Ignis says with a smirk.

“Your sex appeal went up a solid forty percent,” Gladio says with a tone so serious one would assume he was attempting genuine math.

“Considering I was already well over one-hundred…” Prompto winks at him, and Noctis nearly shoves him off the bike with a snort. “Try to deny it, either of you.”

“I’m calling it a night,” Ignis declares, shaking his head with amusement.

“You boys plannin’ on crashing at the caravan?” Cindy says, emerging from the shop with a six pack of beer. She hands it over to Noctis, who takes it with a grateful salute.

“You bet.”

“Well, if I don’t see y’all tomorrow morning, may the odds be in your favor.”

“Thanks, Cindy,” Prompto says, turning off the motorcycle and stumbling off it. “You’re the best.”

“And you know it.” She pecks a kiss on his cheek before she pushes him away. “Don’t be strangers now.”

Ready to call it in, they make for the caravan Prompto has called home for the better part of the last five years.

He didn’t have half a mind to clean it before leaving for Insomnia, so it’s no surprise when Ignis grabs him by the sleeve and hauls his ass into the tiny kitchen for a very serious scolding.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the previous chapter, I know I said this would be as canon-compliant as possible and I'm aware I've _modified_ some facts to fit the story but there's just one thing that I refused to integrate from the Royal Edition, and that's the Regalia 2.0. AS RIDICULOUS AS THAT SOUNDS the mere idea of "oh hey turns out Regis had an exact replica all along" really grinds my gears because holy crap WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THE REGALIA'S PATERNAL SYMBOLISM THEN. (I understand full well WHY Regis would have a replica him being such a notoriously bad driver. My aesthetic sensibilities were vaguely insulted so I'm salty about it. Heh.) My roommates are sick of me ranting about this for the past couple of months.
> 
> Anyhoo, happy (almost) Thursday and this chapter might be relevant to people's interests. ~

They burn the road between them and Lestallum a month after leaving Hammerhead, going from outpost to outpost, city to city, eating food, taking pictures, dancing to the music playing out in the square until early in the morning.

They live day to day, hour to hour, and moment to moment. No one pays them any heed, allowing them the ability to shed any lingering reservations.

Lucis is quiet and calm, sleeping towns awakening with a yawn as the news of their newfound independence fades into the back of people’s minds. Not much changes. Small businesses continue to open, old cars continue to rattle down the roads, and people continue on with their lives as they did before Insomnia’s fall and subsequent rise.

A place untouched by ruin since the ushering in of the dawn and Prompto can see it bathed in the golden sunlight as it was meant to be seen. The joy that twists in his chest makes him rev the engine, pushing the bike harder as he zips down the straight stretch of highway before him, Noctis gunning it in a feeble attempt to match his speed.

There’s music blasting from the car’s radio, an old pop song that had obnoxiously claimed the top spot of _Insomnia’s Top 100_ for well over a month. Prompto and Noctis had sung to it during senior year, Gladio had worked out to it, Ignis had cleaned to it. It’s terrible and catchy and bright and Prompto can barely hear it over the thundering roar engulfing him.

He goes fast enough to feel the world slow around him, encasing him in a box filled with euphoria that fills his lungs to bursting.

The sun shines high in the sky as they head southward, a more permanent goal now in mind.

Gladio had met with Iris and Monica in Lestallum. Apparently, he had a destination in mind, after all, only he had kept it secret out of fear of being unable to procure the key. Luckily, Monica kept a copy and didn’t hesitate to hand it over.

With that said and done, the four of them left.

Prompto eventually eases off the accelerator when the road begins to curve, allowing the others to catch up. They stop at an intersection, mostly to ask how each are doing on petrol.

“I wanna drive it,” Noctis says, looking ready to jump out of the driver’s seat.

“No way, man. You’d likely drive right off a cliff.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” Ignis says from the passenger’s seat, recalling that fiasco with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t trust Prompto or Gladio behind the wheel of any car.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gladio says, looking up from his book to finally acknowledge them. “I can drive just as well as you can.”

“Me being blind, yes.”

“Ouch,” Prompto laughs, revving the bike. To Noctis he says, “I’d let you ride behind me but then that’d leave either Iggy or Gladio to drive, so…”

Noctis pouts. “You owe me a ride.”

“That’s fair. Maybe when we reach Caem.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

They fist bump before Noctis flicks on the turn signal, and Prompto is once again gone with the wind.

***

Cape Caem has fared less well than the rest of the places they’ve collectively visited for the past decade.

The Exineris power grid had been quick to abandon it once they had concluded their rescue efforts for the remaining Altissian immigrants, opting instead to redirect their precious resources to more populated and better-fortified strongholds further north.

Nature has reclaimed most of it, lush greenery overrunning the rocky terrain without mercy. Weeds have grown as tall as the Tenebraen trees that grant plentiful shade, their prickly flowers at the very top granting a splash of color to the otherwise dull landscape.

The sea air has corroded the welcome sign by the road. The chocobo rental spot is no longer there.

The lighthouse remains unmoved, weather-worn and sea-beaten, like a beacon to more peaceful times. The old house is barely standing, entire walls collapsed and rotted away due to lack of care.

Car and bike parked, the four of them stand before the obscured path in silent contemplation.

Prompto almost calls it a homestead in his head, treacherously sees himself making a home of this place rather than the cramped and muggy caravan in Hammerhead. Walking distance from the sea, open wilderness to the north, a bustling outpost to the east.

A garden for Ignis, a pier for Noctis to fish not a mile west from here, all the acres of untouched nature for Gladio to explore. A private cove for the four of them, away from the city lights and the hustle and bustle of overpopulated cities.

Prompto can very well see himself pulling carrots from the plot as the savory smell of a home cooked meal wafts from the open window in the kitchen. Wiping the sweat from his forehead and throwing the produce into a basket as he brings it inside, to an Ignis absently humming to himself with utter content.

Noctis standing by the counter to his right, cleaning out the day’s catch and threatening to walk out if Ignis so much as thinks about finding a way to implement the offending vegetable into the recipe.

Gladio asleep on the bench right outside, taking in the sun.

To belong to a home for the first time in his life has Prompto swallowing hard around the emotion balling up in his throat. Not an empty house with parents he doesn’t see, nor a desolate caravan that carries the ghosts of hopes and dreams gone to waste. But a home with those he loves the most.

“It will certainly take time to get it up to livable standards, I would assume,” Ignis says, reading the silence that is only interrupted by the faint whistle of the wind. “But with enough love and care I feel…” his words cut off, and Prompto can hear the rawness in his voice.

Gladio steps in to place a steadying hand over Ignis’ shoulder, the other resting on his bicep.

“It’s beautiful, Iggy,” Noctis says, reaching for his hand and tenderly threading their fingers together.

“How different is it?”

“Not very. Just needs a little work to restore the house; unbury it from all the grass and weeds. Otherwise, it’s exactly the same as it was before we left.”

Prompto heads on the path and precariously mounts the steps built into the rocky elevation, threading through vegetation and jogging his way up to the lighthouse.

The elevator doesn’t work, so instead, he walks around it to come face to face with the sea. The wooden posts have rotted away and he’s met with nothing but the jagged drop, so he hangs back just enough to be safe.

He can’t see it from here, but he knows that past the trees and well beyond the shoreline the imposing outline of Angelguard will be unmoving like the altar it is.

So many memories are tied into this place, most of them bittersweet, but Prompto finds he can deal with that. As long as he has his friends nearby, he can deal with just about anything. It isn’t enough, however, to quell the overwhelming sense of drowning that suddenly overtakes him.

Prompto collapses onto the ground like a man crudely introduced to weightlessness. There’s too much peace within him, too much tranquility, and ground-shattering fear. Standing here, at the cusp of a life he never dared dream of since his younger years, he’s certain it’s the end.

He wishes that whatever malice continues to quietly watch them from the shadows would show its ugly face already. There must be one. He can feel it pickling along the back of his neck. Prompto would rather not grow complacent with what he has been granted only to have it all taken away again.

Maybe that’s just his anxiety talking. His mind is often the most vicious and relentless of monsters.

Prompto sits perfectly still as he listens to the others’ voices come and go, granting him the space he needs.

Sweltering heat vaguely assuaged by the sea breeze eventually gives way to a chill that makes him shiver, forcing him to finally open his eyes.

“Hey,” Noctis greets him, “Camp’s ready and Iggy’s about to pull a Master Chef if you wanna come watch.” He’s standing several feet away from Prompto, looking out over the sea when the pensive pinch of his brow smooths out into something far more complacent.

Prompto blinks, marveling at how fast time has gone by.

Night has fallen. The sky is alight with millions of stars that gleam like gems, and yes, he’s definitely hungry and wants to see Ignis show off for the first time in forever.

But he also doesn’t want to move from the spot he’s found by the cliff, feet now dangling freely as he watches the pull and push of the water miles below him. That same feeling of time having stopped lingers on, bringing him into a chrysalis of newfound safety he’s reluctant to crawl out of.

He’s afraid that moving will shatter the spell, this fragile fantasy of happiness he has discovered after more than a decade of trying to soldier on by putting one foot in front of the other. Prompto fears that blinking will be enough to wake him, and he’ll be lying on a bed in Lestallum all alone, daylight but a far-off dream.

“Prompto?”

“I’ll be right down.”

“What’s wrong?” Noctis joins him on the edge, close enough to press their sides together when the sea breeze becomes cold enough to matter. “Something bothering you?”

Prompto shakes his head, giving Noctis a small smile. “Just taking it all in, I guess.”

Noctis leans back on his hands, turning his face skyward. “The four of us out here again after so long.”

“The four of us.”

“I’m right here. You can stop mourning me.”

“It feels like you’re going to vanish the moment I look at you too long.” Prompto shakes his head. “Less mourning. More like I’m stuck in this weird haze of awe. I find it hard to believe everything turned out this well this easily. Watch something fuck it up.”

“ _Easily?_ ” Noctis scoffs. “Probably. I say we make the best of it before something does fuck it up.”

“Make the best of it. Like settling down?”

Noctis thinks for a moment. “There’s a lot of land out here. Maybe enough for some chocobo chicks if we’re careful enough. Think Wiz would give us pointers?”

Prompto’s body grows warm underneath the thin layers of clothing he’s wearing. “You suggesting we adopt chocobos?”

“If you’re willing.”

“The least you can do is ask me to marry you first,” Prompto says, purely in jest, until something sour and ugly thrashes in his gut. It only takes a split moment to feel like the biggest asshole in Eos and he turns away, ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I mean…”

“Prompto,” Noctis says, soft enough for the breeze to carry away the sound of his name. “Hey, look at me.” It takes Noctis physically reaching out, hand on his arm to turn Prompto towards him. The same hand then moves to cup the side of his face, a thumb softly tracing Prompto’s cheekbone. “Come on.”

“I’m real sorry, Noct.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “There’s no need to be. It’s been years.”

“Sometimes years aren’t enough to let it go,” Prompto says quietly. “Not ten. Not twenty. Sometimes you still grip onto that hope even when they’re gone.”

“I’m right here.”

“She deserves to be here, too.”

“She does,” Noctis says, the night darkening his eyes even as they glimmer.

“Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

Prompto nods, his heart aching.

This close, he can see every imperfection on Noctis’ face, the thickness of his eyelashes, and the soft curve of his top lip. He can smell the earthy scent of him even through the smell of the sea and his breath catches, decades of longing being held back by a mere thread that can only take so much more stretching.

“Can I kiss you?” Prompto asks, doesn’t give himself the time to be mortified by the request. He just lays it out there and waits.

Noctis doesn’t immediately react, but when he does all that he offers is a gentle smile that melts Prompto onto the cold stone beneath him. It reaches his eyes, wrinkling them at their corners as he lets go of a slow breath and nods his head.

Prompto nods back and stalls for all of two seconds before he moves, awkwardly inches forward to press his lips to Noctis’ in the lightest seal he can possibly achieve in this position before quickly pulling away.

Noctis lifts an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Prompto pouts, the tips of his ears burning hot. “I—, well.”

But Noctis reaches over and sinks a hand into Prompto’s long hair, pulling him in for a proper kiss.

It’s a firm seal of lips that is still chaste, but this time it lingers like a solid presence even when they allow the night air to fill the space between them again.

Noctis doesn’t let go of him, hovering close as he watches Prompto’s mouth with a feverish look in his eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” Prompto confesses, and suddenly he’s twenty again, lounging in the Regalia and fantasizing about pressing his prince against a wall and catching his lips with his.

“I know,” Noctis says, headily, but before anything else is said he’s leaning in again, this time harder, with more fervor, as he brushes Prompto’s lips with his over and over again until there’s nothing that matters but that one point of contact between them.

Prompto groans softly, hands unable to stop shaking as he clings onto Noctis’s sleeve, keeping him close but nervous to pull him closer. The scratch of his beard against his jaw is a reminder that they’re not, in fact, in their twenties, and Noctis is no longer a prince, but a king without a kingdom.

“Noct,” Prompto sighs his name against his mouth and Noctis shivers. “I’d raise all of the chocobos with you.”

Noctis’ laugh is breathy, a little heavy with something Prompto wishes to address right then and there, but doesn’t. Baby steps, he tells himself. They’ll cross that bridge when they get there.

“We should get back, it’s getting cold,” he says, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he rests his forehead against Prompto’s and holds him close.

“I think I can smell whatever Iggy’s cooking,” Prompto says just as his stomach decides to grumble loud enough to make them both snicker.

Gladio has set up camp by the shore, and Noctis and Prompto take the rockier route down if it means not having to drive through the tunnel to reach the stairs leading down to the estuary. They go slow and steady, nearly losing their footing on various occasions, but they make it to the shore in one piece.

“Life would be so much easier if I could still warp.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

Prompto’s first reaction is to gasp with surprise when he comes across the faint blue glow of the haven in which they’ve set up on, Ignis rocking the grill while Gladio lounges on a chair scrolling through his phone.

“Nice of you two to finally join us,” he says. There’s more to it but he stops when he looks up at them, snorts, and goes back to his phone with a smirk.

Prompto opts to ignore it. “The wards are up,” he says instead, carefully walking about and tracing the tip of his boot across the smooth surface of the rock.

“We’re just as surprised,” Ignis says.

“But…” he frowns down at it, then looks up at Noctis.

To have him not be dead, have his legs healed in a matter of weeks, to see the Oracle’s blessing on a haven. It’s as if something is building and Prompto has no answers for it, neither of them does, and he can see the tension tightening the space between Ignis’ shoulders.

“We have the Oracle’s protection,” Gladio says. “That’s all that matters right now.”

“Protection against what?” Noctis reaches over and touches his fingers to Prompto’s wrist in a comforting gesture. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Does any of this?”

“Dinner is ready,” Ignis announces and doesn’t give them a moment to spare. “Prompto, would you mind bringing the plates over?”

“On it.”

They have stew, and Prompto isn’t ashamed of the sounds he makes while stuffing his face with what is easily the best damn thing he’s eaten in years.

Questions and worries set aside for the moment, the four of them devolve into a conversation that continuously changes topics, from people to places to even fashion as they poke fun at Ignis’ new shirt.

They talk video games, mostly old ones, and wonder how things are going in Insomnia, but that soon fades when seconds are served and Gladio steals Prompto’s camera to take pictures of everything he feels like. Including but not limited to his own shoes and Noctis’ ass.

Prompto looks up ideas for interior decorating on his phone and describes them in detail for Ignis to accept or reject them, all the while Noctis dozes on the camping chair he’s occupied.

It will take days, if not weeks, of camping before the house becomes livable again, but they’re okay with that. Prompto considers it a type of reintroduction into each other’s nucleus, sharing a small space that is all their own.

Sleeping under the stars to the sound of the lulling sea, it really doesn’t get any better than this.

“How are you, Prompto?” Ignis asks.

Prompto is sitting on the ground by his feet, leaning against his legs for no real reason other than wanting physical contact. “I’m fine?”

“You seem uncharacteristically quiet.”

“I just rambled for forty minutes on how deep orange would look trashy on a rug.”

Ignis cants his head to the side. “Fair enough. But that’s not what I mean.”

Stretching and resting the back of his head over Ignis’ knee, Prompto looks up at the stars. “I really am fine. A lot more fine than I’ve been in a long time.”

Ignis touches his forehead, letting his fingers card through Prompto’s hair. “You sound awfully content.”

“So do you.”

“Being away from the Citadel is more of a relief than I expected.”

“You needed the vacation.” That’s putting it lightly, but Prompto knows better than to assume Ignis’ thoughts and needs. “Genuinely appreciating Noct called for a change of scenery.” The fingers in his hair tug ever so lightly and Prompto melts into the touch.

“How very perceptive of you.”

“I am when I want to be.”

The snap and crackle of the fire are soothing, its warmth comfortable enough to drag him towards sleepiness. With a full stomach and the best company, Prompto is ready to take on the world or pass out from the bliss for a solid day or two.

“The outcome of the abolishment perturbs me all the more now that I’ve no sort of control over it. Lucis may soar under its new government or perish altogether.” Ignis pauses, and Prompto can feel the muscles of his leg shift under his head. “And I’ve been met with the horrid realization that I simply do not care. This world means nothing to me unless Noct is a part of it.”

The steely edge of his voice has Prompto staring up at him unblinking, awed by the unshakeable certainty of Ignis’ words. Prompto has known him as a ruthless tactician, his loyalty unparalleled, but he’s never seen this.

“If that makes me a terrible person, then so be it.”

Prompto slowly shifts his position until he’s sitting on his side, clinging to Ignis’ leg and reluctant to pull away from the petting. “You love him.”

“As do you,” he says without missing a beat.

Prompto closes his eyes. “Guess he has all of us wrapped around his finger, huh.”

“I see no better a place or any better a person to be bound heart and soul to.”

“Sometimes I think Noct’s too good for this world, and then I remember that he is and I get sad.”

Ignis laughs softly. “Part of me wishes to believe he chose to return of his own volition.”

“Personally, I think the Astrals got sick of him and kicked him out of the afterlife. I mean, not everyone’s cut out to deal with him.”

“He’s lucky to have us fools to put up with his shenanigans.”

Prompto agrees with every fiber of his being. “They won’t take him again, Iggy. I won’t let them.”

“Your nobility astounds me.”

“Like you wouldn’t defy the gods to keep him here.”

“I would raze this star into nothingness if I must.”

The shiver that courses through Prompto is enough to ease him into complacency. “We’re some pretty badass retainers.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Think Gladio would be onboard, too?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Thought so.”

Overcome by a swell of affection, Prompto reaches up and touches the pad of his fingers to Ignis’ jaw. The skin there is smooth and soft, with only the vague prickling of day-old stubble to interrupt it. He grows bold at the lack of a negative reaction and moves his hands further up, just enough to slip his fingers underneath Ignis’ sunglasses.

Prompto wonders if Ignis ever sought comfort in another person, if the incessant flirting he and Gladio dance around has truly ever lead anywhere in the recent years. A whole new world of questions has opened up for him, and Prompto’s inherent curiosity and need to see his friends happy slowly begins to consume him.

His fingers warm as they caress the old scar around Ignis’ eye, soft tingles making them twitch when he leans into Prompto’s touch.

Out of the three of them, it has been Ignis who has challenged the powers above to protect Noctis. The price he paid haunts them all, but Ignis bears his burden without regret. After all, a decade and a half later, Noctis is softly snoring not ten feet away from them.

Ignis wraps his hand around Prompto’s wrist, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss to it.

Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, Prompto marvels at what a ragtag team of people the four of them are.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eggplant emoji*

_Fire cannot touch although it burns through his paper skin, leaving nothing but a trail of ash the further up the mountain he walks. Prompto soldiers on despite the charring, the rubber of his soles sticking to molten rock._

_The flames clamor for him to return to their roots. The pyroclastic flow beckoning him to step in and surrender to the purifying forgiveness it offers. Absolution for sins birthed in his blood._

_The sizzling whispers words Prompto can’t understand but lure him closer to the edge of the caldera, promising him answers to questions long left to manifest doubt within. Within this hellscape is a future Prompto can take control of, regain his sense of self in the face of monsters lurking in the darkest corners of his world._

_With fingers outstretched he can move the unmovable, alter nature’s stream to his bidding, destroy his torments and protect those who deserve his protection._

_Power sings through the veins so poorly concealed underneath his skin. Control so sublime entire kingdoms would kneel before him, penitent and worshipful._

_“To seize control of your torment grants power unimaginable,” Noctis says as he comes to stand by him, looking up at a throne of fire and ruin. “To tear down the walls of complacent rulers is to initiate ascension.”_

_“Even peaceful ones?”_

_“The privilege of peace is often a spoil of war. One cannot exist without the other.”_

_The cold steel of a blade presses against the pulse point on his neck and Prompto tenses, regretting his mistake of allowing Noctis to grow so close. “I’m part of a war machine,” he says, sick of the anger simmering in his gut. “What are you going to do about it?”_

_“The choice is entirely yours, Prompto,” Noctis says, the amber glow of his eyes catching the firelight around them like mirrors and reflecting nothing but shallow madness._

_Prompto remains still as he hovers over the edge of a precipice, his friend’s sword so readily poised to strike him down. “You’re right.” Entirely unarmed, Prompto relies solely on his hands to protect himself against the image before him._

_Noctis is faster, switching his weapon to a lance unbefitting of his armiger. Prompto recognizes the machine for what it is, sees the shape of his friend change to one both familiar and alien all at once._

_The horror that settles inside of him makes the flames grow higher._

_Prompto stands before himself, wielding the lance with deadly precision. The red gleam in his eyes daring him to move. “Just when you think it’s all over, huh.”_

_“I’m dreaming.”_

_“Your subconscious trying to right itself under pressure.”_

_“You’re not real. This isn’t real.”_

_“I was real enough at Longwythe for you.”_

_The involuntarily step back brings him closer to the fire now glowing hotter against the back of him. Prompto reaches for his holsters only to find them missing, tries to summon any of his weapons to no avail._

_He’s vulnerable, unarmed, and he’s nowhere to go._

_“You’re not me.”_

_“You’re definitely right about that.”_

_“Zegnautus was destroyed. The lab’s gone.”_

_“Debatable.”_

_“He was destroyed!”_

_“Also debatable.”_

_Prompto sucks a burning hot breath through his nose, refusing to accept that. “Go away.”_

_“And not tell you what all this is about?”_

_“Go away.”_

_“Oh, Prom. Dear ol’ Prom.”_

_Hands over his ears he’s ten again, afraid and wanting nothing more than to run. “Go away!”_

_“I’m only here to lend you a favor, buddy. A warning, if you’d prefer.” The mirror image of him steps closer, never lowering its weapon. “It’s a dangerous game to try simplifying the power of old. Foolish to think you can put it down on primitive lines you call words.”_

_A kick to Prompto’s knees sends him crashing down onto the sizzling rock floor. He tries to scramble up to his feet again, instead, he’s left staring at the blurry blue light that begins to dance around his fingers pressed to the gritty surface._

_“Tell your king it is best not to question the opportunities bestowed upon him and those closest. What we grant to the Astrals and those below them we can take away.”_

_Prompto pushes himself up to his knees, gazing at the eeriness of his own hands. He can barely discern what his mirror self is saying, its voice different than his, its appearance a glimmer of nightmares._

_“This whole thing’s a shit-show,” his mirror self says, poorly attempting to imitate him. “The balance remains but its axis is broken, and part of me is macabrely intrigued as to how you will go by it.” Approaching Prompto, it lowers itself to his level. “There are worse things across the Realms than the Darkness in the absence of Dawn, little boy. Here’s to hoping the power of friendship is enough to pull you through.”_

_“Why are you telling me this?” Prompto manages to spit out, somehow calmed by the cool glow that twists itself up his arms, engulfing him in light._

_“Because,” it says, grabbing Prompto’s arm and instantaneously dispelling the light along with the safety it granted him, “Sometimes the big picture isn’t quite what your gods’ minds can possibly comprehend. Your deities may have shown you their favor, may have propelled you towards defying Fate itself, but rest assured, get in our way and we will easily rip you beyond what the Astrals can save.”_

***

Prompto’s eyes snap open only to come face to face with the tent’s roof swaying in the morning breeze. The world outside is still a peaceful blue untouched by the sun’s first light.

On either side of him, Gladio and Ignis sleep. He lays there, jaw clenched as he struggles to synchronize his breathing to their calm and even rhythm.

It takes him what feels like endless moments to regain feeling in his hands, to remember that he has limbs attached to his body that can move. Nausea violently thrashes in his gut and he tries his hardest to keep it down, to focus on the warmth around him that offers nothing but genuine safety and comfort. It doesn’t really work, but he keeps trying anyway.

When he’s certain he won’t throw up then and there, Prompto lifts his head just enough to look over Ignis, but the absence of Noctis pierces his chest like a frozen weapon.

Very real terror renders him unmoving, thoughts racing over the past couple of days spent by the shore. He reaches with desperation for the memories they made, for the pictures they’ve taken, for anything that may guarantee him of the reality he inhabits.

Noctis is alive. He’s been alive all this time. They all left Insomnia together, drove through Lucis and ended up here, on the cusp of a peaceful new life.

Nearly hyperventilating, Prompto struggles to unzip the tent and stumble outside, knees hitting the cold ground of the haven. What resembles light gracing his hands like a halo is just the runes beneath him, shining bright despite the new day. He clutches at his chest then, trying and failing to pull himself together in the onslaught of negative emotions drowning him.

But then there are hands on his shoulders, gently shaking him, and Prompto looks up to find Noctis standing over him with a look of pure concern. He speaks but Prompto can’t make out any form of words, any coherent thought banished in the aftermath of whatever experience he just had.

He does sob, clinging to Noctis with every ounce of strength in him. He doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want any sort of space between them if it means he will slip away when he isn’t looking.

“Deep breaths, Prompto. Deep breaths.”

Prompto chokes and devolves into a coughing fit, Noctis patting his back as he pulls him against his chest. They stay there with Noctis gently rocking him until the sun finally crests over the horizon, bathing the world with its light.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“You left.”

“I had to pee.”

Prompto sniffs. “I had a nightmare.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Shaking his head, he says, “Talk to me.”

Noctis does. He rambles aimlessly about a handful of topics Prompto can’t focus on, all the while holding him tight. His voice lulls him into a stupor, better than the panic threatening to tear him apart only moments ago.

They stay like this for so long Prompto thinks he’s fallen asleep against Noctis, but is stirred to full-consciousness when he’s tugged on by the sleeve of his shirt.

“Let’s go for a swim.”

Prompto wants to say no. He doesn’t want to do anything that requires him moving for a significant amount of time, but Noctis is already in motion, pulling him up by the hand.

The shore is predominantly craggy, its rocks sharp and jagged enough to easily rip fabric and skin alike. Unevenness makes the world around him shift dangerously but the insistent pulling at his hand, the gentle guiding, makes up for the warping haze around his sight.

It isn’t until freezing water laps at his feet that Prompto jerks awake, now fully conscious of what he is doing and what is happening, and he flails in hopes of escape. The small bank would be easy to miss were one just passing by, but they’ve scouted the area enough times to learn the cove’s secrets.

“Bad idea,” he croaks. Reality slowly takes shape as his brain explains that the reason why he’s freezing is that it’s early morning and he’s wearing nothing but a threadbare shirt and boxers. Swimming is the last thing he should be considering.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Noctis says, shedding his clothing and casting it over a rock just out of the tide’s reach. He immediately begins rubbing his hands over his shoulders as his teeth chatter, the pale expanse of his skin erupting in goosebumps.

Prompto stares at an utter loss. “I propose fixing the plumbing up at the house before we do anything else.”

“Yup.” But Noctis makes a beeline for the water anyway, uncharacteristically giddy despite the early hour and the freezing temperature.

He stops where the sand turns darker, as if beckoning the sea to come to him.

Prompto wishes he had his camera.

The dreamlike quality of the scene before him is far more serene compared to the hellish imagery he had just woken up from. In the pale yellow sunlight, Noctis’ nudity shines ethereal against the shadowy cove. The sudden look of surprise quickly overtaken by bliss the moment the water touches his toes deserves to be immortalized in any way possible.

Prompto has been witness to Noctis standing by water countless times before, utterly content with fishing for hours even when nothing bites his line. He’s seen him fish happily, peacefully, angrily, sadly, and every other way that has made his hobby a necessity to his state of mind.

They’ve gone swimming in pools, lakes, rivers, and oceans.

However, there’s a distinctive feeling to what Prompto is witnessing here. Much like a mural of stained-glass come to life.

“It’s beautiful.”

Noctis turns to him, surprised by the sudden comment. “So I’ve been told.”

“The sea! The sea is beautiful, I mean. Yeah. Woo, look at her go, just… waving.”

Noctis smiles slyly at him before wading deeper into the water, pausing when it reaches his knees. “For being unofficially dead to the world for a solid fifteen years it sure feels like I’ve gone that long without touching water.”

Prompto inches closer, afraid of being splashed since he’s already about to lose his limbs from the cold. “Wait, you’re telling me you haven’t showered since you came back? Gross.”

“I figured you’d like my musk.”

“Double gross.”

Shaking his head with faint amusement, Noctis says, “It’s different.” Now serious, he allows his hands to fall to his sides. He walks until the tip of his fingers disturb patterns in the swirling wake. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“More in-tune with nature and all that jazz?”

Watching the emotions flicker across Noctis’ face is a spectacle to behold, one that fuels the unease already coiled in Prompto’s gut. There’s confusion there, reluctance, stubbornness, followed by the gentle giving way to acceptance.

Prompto wants to ask what he’s thinking, but any sort of insight scares him. His mind still reels from horrors fresh as a wound.

Noctis disappears beneath the surface only to emerge seconds later with a laugh, swiping back his hair as he gestures for Prompto to join him. “Water’s warmer over here.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. Instead, he stands there awkwardly scratching at his arm as he considers it. Definitely not the first time he’s taken his clothes off in front of Noctis, but he feels exceptionally vulnerable given the state of things. He wants to add layers, as many possible; not take them off.

But Noctis is waiting patiently, bobbing in the surprisingly calm surf.

With a long-suffering sigh, Prompto removes his shirt and shorts as quickly as possible before he gracelessly waddles into the water, cursing at first contact. Bad idea indeed. Maybe he should go back to the tent and steal Gladio and Ignis’ body heat.

Before he can act on the idea, Noctis is already there, pulling him deeper into the water.

The current feels stronger, merciless as opposed to the calm flow near the shore, and Prompto goes under in a moment of sheer panic.

_He’s standing on the shoreline, alone and unseeing, only feeling the sharp stones tearing at his feet as the others call him from somewhere he can’t reach…_

Noctis effortlessly pulls him up, keeping his head above the surface with a frown. “I’m pretty sure you can swim better than this. What gives?”

Prompto sputters, rubbing the salt from his eyes and hating everything. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Without giving it much thought, Prompto bobs closer to Noctis and loosely wraps his arms around his shoulders, anchoring them together in the now calmer pull and push of the Leirity Sea.

He gives up on trying to use words he knows aren’t going to come, just this once, and focuses instead on resting their foreheads together as the water holds the weight of them.

The bit of skin exposed to the air is near frigid, but that soon changes when Noctis moves to press a kiss to Prompto’s right shoulder. Warmth suffuses every inch of him, making him acutely aware of their nude proximity. This can go one of two ways, the outcome decided when Noctis brings them closer still, eliciting a breathy gasp from Prompto.

“What about this feels different?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific. The water or being naked with you?”

Prompto swears his face is about to catch fire. “The water.”

Noctis flicks the surface of the water with the hand not currently around Prompto’s middle. “It’s almost like I can feel it,” he says, the tone of his voice leaving no room for jokes. “All of its power just moving inside of me, filling up every bit until my body feels like rupturing from the pressure.”

“That’s intense,” Prompto says as quietly as he can and still be heard.

“Yeah, it is.” Noctis’ hands skim down Prompto’s sides, tracing ribs and then smooth skin until they hook behind both knees, pulling them up and around him as best as he possibly can. “A lot of intenseness going around.”

“Think it has anything to do with… everything else? Everything being weird?”

Noctis shrugs, now distracted by more pressing matters.

It’s difficult to keep hold of anything while buoyant, and their attempt at sexiness becomes a slippery mess of hushed laughs and eye-rolls. They make for the shore again, all flailing limbs and goofy grins, until Noctis properly guides Prompto down onto the sand.

Exposure to the elements leaves Prompto shivering, but Noctis soon sees to the issue by slipping between Prompto’s legs, bodies pressed flush together and robbing both of their breaths. Not a lot is said when Noctis begins the slow ritual of pressing feathery light kisses down Prompto’s temple and along his chin, warming him up with those alone.

Questions cast to the breeze, Prompto gives himself over to the euphoric sensation of Noctis’ lips ghosting over patches of skin he’s never even thought about having him touch. Ticklish spots, hot spots, spots that rip unbidden moans from the back of his throat.

Noctis shushes him around a laugh. “Don’t wanna wake Gladio and Iggy.”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Prompto nods.

The water on his skin dries up, leaving salt to stick to him along with the sand getting into places it has no business being in, but he can’t be bothered to ask about moving. He can’t just ask Noctis to stop what he’s doing, especially when he slides back up his body and settles with his full weight on him, pinning Prompto in place.

He can’t control the way his body moves, how his back arches or his hips press up against Noctis for more of that accidental friction. Try as he may his own sounds have a mind of their own, tumbling out of his mouth the more Noctis moves, the more he touches and kisses and whispers into his ears words not meant to be spoken aloud.

At that point, nothing matters.

There is nothing but the living heat of Noctis above him, his labored breathing and quiet little gasps and grunts. His mouth, his hands, the clumsy and messy rubbing as they bring each other to a point of bliss.

Prompto threads his fingers in Noctis’ hair, holding on for dear life when teeth scrape along the column of his neck.

In the end, it’s the way that Noctis’ voice cracks on his name that pushes him over the edge, pulling him underneath a current Prompto has no wish to escape from.

***

Ignis is the first to climb out of the tent, his hair a right mess and face flushed.

Prompto blinks at him before turning away, utterly mortified. He looks well and truly fucked out, the oversized shirt on him slipping down his shoulders enough to reveal dark marks peppered about. In the years that Prompto has known him, he has never seen the man wear signs of sex so unabashed.

“Morning,” he says, “Do I smell eggs?”

“Damn straight you do,” Noctis answers, trying his best to flip the eggs on the skillet without burning or tossing them onto the dirt. “Figured I’d make myself useful for a change.”

Noctis seems utterly unperturbed by the disheveled Ignis shuffling about camp.

His hair is _down_ , for fuck’s sake. A mess of sandy locks falling over his face and eliminating a solid fifteen years off him. Ignis looks devastatingly handsome this unkempt and it is unfair, given that Prompto looks like he got into a fight with a sabertusk and lost if he doesn’t comb his hair first thing in the morning.

_Or after a tumble on the beach,_ his mind supplies. There’s a persistent bubble in his chest that makes him want to bounce around with pure bliss. He kissed Noctis, they had sex, and it was the best damn thing in all of Eos and beyond.

Regardless of the sand getting into places they both regret.

Noctis keeps shooting him coy glances and shy little smiles that makes him look twenty again, and Prompto can’t help but walk over to him and press a kiss to his cheek.

Ignis is facing them, head canted to the side before he clears his throat and turns away.

There’s a whole lot of quiet until Gladio finally joins them, fully dressed and hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He pins up the tent’s door, obviously to air it, and that’s when Prompto finally cracks.

“Did we start this?” The words are a lot higher pitched than intended, but the puzzle slowly clicking into place makes his face burn red hot all the way to the tip of his ears.

Gladio grunts, but his lopsided grin says it all.

Noctis clears his throat, nonchalantly shoveling the eggs onto a plate. “So,” he says, “Anyone up for sausage?”

“Certainly we already have the answer to that question, dear Noct,” Ignis quips, playfully patting him on the back.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 chapters in and, finally, here it is: plot. I'm also _very well aware_ we're about 5 chapters away from finishing this particular fic. *finger guns*

The moon hangs heavy in the night sky when Prompto decides to take a walk. The space inside the tent had been too stuffy for him to sleep, and it looks like Ignis had thought the same. Noticing his absence, Prompto decided to join him, only to see him nowhere in the vicinity of their camp.

He walks the shore, then hikes up the rocky cliff with nothing but his flashlight attached to his pants. He’s done it enough times to know the grooves and ledges from memory rather than sight, easing his way up to the homestead that is a little more than just shambles now.

Two weeks and they’ve gathered most of the materials they need. Scrapped wood boards and reused nails. Window frames courtesy of Cid, pipes donated to them by Holly in the aftermath of Exineris’ remodeling of old plants across Lucis.

It’s a slow process, mostly because they spend most of their days lounging about, eating and talking and exploring rather than working. No one is in a hurry these days. They’ve taken the time to heal wounds, physical and not, sharing thoughts that had been kept locked away for more than a decade. They sleep. They touch. They watch the sunset and snuggle each other as it rises in the early hours.

Still, Prompto carries the heaviness of the past in his heart, stirring when the nights grow too quiet for him to sleep. He figures they all do, given that they all have their own way of managing it.

Gladio vanishes for hours into the mountains. Noctis sits by the sea with his MP3 plugged into his ears, unmoving despite the rising tide soaking his jeans. Ignis stands at the top of the lighthouse, often returning without a word to make dinner. As for Prompto, he’s fallen back into the habit of being their support. He mourned long enough, he feels, having no real reason to do so anymore, so he takes it upon himself to try and get them out of their funk.

But he’s still human, and the nightmares keep coming. He’s awake more often than not throughout the night, reaching out and trying his best to comfort whoever is tossing and turning in their sleep.

He no longer feels tired mostly because tired is his permanent setting nowadays. A new average, and so he rolls with it. At least, now he can be tired but comfortable and safe, and small steps are better than no steps at all.

When he eventually reaches the homestead, he finds Ignis sitting on the walkway to the lighthouse. He looks up when Prompto approaches, eyes shut and a frown deep enough to be almost comical if not for the pained twist of his mouth.

“It’s me.”

“I know it is, Prompto.”

Without an invitation, Prompto sits next to him, elbows on his knees as he looks over the still overgrown terrain. The moon is big and bright enough to bathe everything in a pale gray light, and Prompto appreciates it.

“I can prepare you a cup of tea if you’re finding it difficult to sleep.”

“Nah. Just one of those nights. I’d rather keep you company.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Prompto smiles when Ignis reaches over and takes his hand, giving it a tight enough squeeze that it almost hurts his knuckles. His hands are soft and cold, gentle in the way they smooth over Prompto’s palm.

“The reason for this constant unease eludes me, but I believe I understand now.”

“Feels like it’s going to go away pretty damn soon, huh.”

Ignis sighs, deciding to lace their fingers together. “Like it’s all too good to be true, yes. Perhaps it is, and this is all a dream.”

“I keep thinking the same thing. Keep trying to figure out at what point we stepped into an alternate reality where everything is fine. Or, as fine as it could be. In a perfect reality, none of us would have to deal with our wounds anymore.”

“You mean I wouldn’t be blind.”

“Yeah.” Ignis squeezes his fingers again, and if Prompto doesn’t know any better, he’d think him nervous. “You wouldn’t be.”

“When I began my Crownsguard training, Gladio showed no mercy. I became increasingly frustrated having been academically inclined all my life, to then have a blade entrusted to me that I was unable to use. As time went on, I grew more confident, and I was able to keep time with him the more I practiced. However, at the end of the day, the week, the year – the cuts and bruises would not leave. They would heal, but the scars remained.”

Prompto listens to him, trying to imagine a much younger Ignis struggling to keep his footing. Difficult, considering how graceful and lethal the man can be in the face of danger. He’s seen Ignis snarl with violent delight as the four of them hunted for food on more than one occasion.

But they were all young once, and not everybody is genetically modified to be good at what they’re meant to do.

“Moral of the story: Gladio’s always been an asshole.”

“A kindhearted one,” Ignis says with a firm nod, “but no, that’s not it.” Ignis opens his unseeing eyes and turns his face upward as if to count the stars. “Scars are meant to tell stories, to remind us of the sacrifices we have made and why we have them.”

“In a perfect world, you would still be blind.”

Ignis smiles. “It is a testament to the things I have done. A cornerstone of our shared history.” With his free hand, Ignis reaches up to touch the discolored patch of skin around his eye. “This is the price I willingly paid for all of us to be here in this moment.”

The hand falls away and Ignis blinks once, twice, before turning to Prompto with a look of sheer loss touching each corner of his face. His eyes widen then, lips slightly parting.

“What am I to do when that reminder is gone?”

Prompto shakes his head, mostly on instinct, as he tries to come up with a way to explain that as long as they have Noctis, as long as the four of them are together, there is no need for scars.

But the realization comes slow, stilted as the breeze and the sea stop their sounds to grant Prompto a moment to truly comprehend what Ignis is saying.

He opens his mouth to speak, but all he can muster is a feeble noise that is both inquisitive and surprised.

Ignis’ eyes are tracking his movements – actually tracking him – and Prompto’s pulse quickens.

“It’s been gradual over the course of a couple of days,” Ignis says, at a loss more grievous than Prompto as ever heard from him before. “From blackness to grayness, to subtle outlines of figures amidst fog.”

Part of him whispers that he should be worried, that Ignis is grieving, but a louder part of his mind wants to break down and cry. Call it a form of selfishness, but Prompto feels the weight of mountains lifted from his shoulders.

Ignis can see.

“Holy shit.”

“I share the sentiment.”

“Holy shit, Iggy. Iggy you can… holy _shit_.”

Ignis laughs despite himself, and the conflict is so painfully obvious on his face. Prompto can empathize on some level, but the childlike wonder in him sparks a happiness he wishes he could pass onto Ignis.

“Okay. Okay, how about we do this? First things first, we tell the other guys. Then we, uh, I don’t know. We can… _I don’t know_ —” The sudden wave of rising frustration freezes when Ignis gathers his hands in his, his thumbs tracing patterns over the top of them that Prompto can’t see. “What is it?”

“Curious.”

“What’s curious?”

Ignis brings Prompto’s hands closer to his face. “Fascinating.”

“Iggy?”

Without his sunglasses, Prompto can see the gears turning in his head. Ignis is thinking very hard and very fast, and apprehension gives way to surprise that is evident in the arch of his eyebrows. “Bloody hell.”

“Whoa,” Prompto says, taken aback. He lifts his hands to frantically inspect them, but he sees nothing out of the ordinary. “Alright, okay. Either you tell me what’s up or I’m gonna start losing my marbles.”

“We need to get back to camp.”

***

Prompto half stumbles on his way inside the tent, accidentally kicking Noctis in the process.

Noctis groans in his sleep, burrowing deeper into the blankets Gladio is hogging in their absence.

“You need to get up.”

The urgency in his words is enough to get Gladio’s eyes to snap open, bolting upright despite Noctis’ protests that he doesn’t want to, sun’s not even out yet. The two of them follow him out regardless, greeted by the crackling campfire Ignis has started.

“What is it?” Gladio says, head turning in every direction to gauge for any sort of impending danger. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Prompto says, holding up his hands to calm him. “We’re, uh, fine, more or less.”

“Specs?” Noctis says, slowly approaching Ignis with a frown. “What’s up?”

But Ignis doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands there, eyes wide and glimmering in the firelight. His lips part to speak, but at the failure of making words surface, he opts to reach out.

Ignis’ hands reach Noctis’ face, fingers splayed gently across his cheeks. Fingertips trace the curves of it, thumbs pressing along the bristly hairs of his beard. “Oh, Noct,” he says, breathlessly. “You’ve _aged_.”

It’s such a silly thing to say, but Prompto feels his heart shatter at the heaviness of the sentiment. There is so much force, so much meaning behind the simple words. There is just so much.

Noctis takes an involuntary step back, stunned into silence.

Gladio grips Prompto’s arm tight enough to bruise, and Prompto has to reach over in order to offer the best comfort he possibly can.

With an entirely new world around them, Ignis’ eyes are solely for Noctis. “You don’t look much like your father—” The words are cut off when Noctis flings himself into Ignis’ arms, wrapping him in a crushing embrace while burying his face into his shoulder.

“Iggy…” The name is a quiet mutter on Gladio’s lips, and Prompto rubs a hand along his arm. “What the hell is going on?”

“He’s okay, Big Guy.”

Right here, right now, he is, and that is all that matters.

They eventually settle around the campfire, silent in their shared shock. That doesn’t stop Ignis from approaching each of them, sitting cross-legged in front of them and taking the time to touch their faces as he traces features new and old with his eyes.

The air is heavy, even when Ignis surprises them all by pressing a firm kiss to each of their lips.

Prompto feels himself blush when it’s his turn and Ignis’ face is one of thinly veiled concern. He touches the bit underneath Prompto’s eyes, and he knows he has bags for miles. A forefinger traces the twisted scar across his cheek from months ago and then moves to the tinier series of scratches across his jawline from the bike accident.

Lastly, Ignis tugs at the hair under his chin. “It’s worse than I imagined it to look like.”

“We keep telling him that,” Gladio quips, taking a swig of the coffee Ignis threw together to keep them warm.

“Not all of us can look as good as you with all this,” Prompto says, waving a hand in the general direction of his own face.

“Speak for yourself,” Noctis says.

Ignis shakes his head. “If you’d like me to cut your hair, the offer still stands.”

“Oh, come on. All you gonna do is badmouth how I look? You wound me, Iggy.”

Ignis seals his inspection with a kiss, and Prompto’s stomach flutters with excitement. “Not at all. You look far more handsome than you already did.”

“He definitely grew into his looks,” Gladio agrees.

Prompto hides his face in his hands, shaking his head.

“Are we going to talk about what the hell is going on?” Noctis says, the initial bedazzlement of the revelation slowly fading. “I don’t even want to think about the type of price we’re gonna have to eventually pay for all this.”

“Your apprehension is understandable, but I believe I have a theory.”

Prompto perks up at this. For months they have faced the series of events that continue to unfold around them, no explanation at hand out of some unspoken fear that addressing it would make it all go sour. Trust Ignis to be the one to offer any sort of insight.

“Well? Out with it,” Gladio says, leaning forward to listen.

“Prompto,” Ignis says, startling him, “Give me your hand, please.”

He does so without hesitation, moving closer. “Go easy on me, Igster.”

“Although my blindness was total,” he says, “I was occasionally able to perceive light if the conditions were correct. Sunlight was unperceivable since it is all-encompassing, but, say, a spotlight at close enough range would register.”

Ignis closes his eyes, shoulders easing back as he was falling into meditation. He brings Prompto’s hand up to rest against his eyes, and Prompto has no idea what he’s getting at, but he doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it at all.

“It was at Longwythe that I first made note of it, a mere afterthought. But Insomnia…” Ignis lets the hand drop and opens his eyes. He’s staring at Prompto like he’s something sacred when he shouldn’t be. “It was after you touched Noctis that he became able to walk again.”

Prompto looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists as waves of nausea struggle to escape him.

“Wait. Wait just a damn minute,” Noctis says, looking from Ignis to Prompto. “That’s not possible. There’s no way in Eos that’s possible. Right?”

The cold that settles in Prompto’s bones has nothing to do with the sea breeze. “That’s impossible.”

“Just a theory,” Ignis explains. “You’ve touched us both—”

“I’ve been touching you two for months! Why would it mean anything _now_?”

Ignis touches the area around his eye, and a barely-there smile graces his lips. “Intent.”

“No.” Prompto scrambles to his feet, wiping his hands against his jeans. “Your theory’s wrong. It has to be.”

“Come now, Prompto.”

“I’m not a… I’m not— I’m not a part of that family! I _have_ no family! My da—my fa—my proge- _progenitor_ was hardly human!”

Prompto gasps when Gladio grabs him by the shoulders, keeping him tethered to them before he loses himself to the horrifying truths of where he came from.

He’s just Prompto. His last name isn’t even his by blood, but gifted to him by a couple with enough heart but no time for spare for him. He’s just a guy with simple interests and simple goals, a nobody in the grand scheme of things had it not been for the people around him.

“I’m not anything,” he says feebly, trying and failing to twist out of Gladio’s grip.

“There are only two bloodlines capable of utilizing magic,” Ignis says.

“The problem being that there is no magic to use,” Noctis adds, eyes distant as he thinks. “Without the Crystal, with the Astrals asleep, without the Ring… there’s nothing.”

“And yet.”

Prompto looks down at his own hands.

“Maybe the Six are reinventing themselves,” Gladio says. “We might not need it now, but what are we gonna do when the next Scourge falls from the firmament? What if something just as bad shows up, piggybacking on a meteor and there’s no Archean to stop it?”

“I’m not a god,” Prompto almost squeaks, utterly terrified at the idea.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“New bloodlines,” Noctis says. “I’m the last of the Lucis Caelums, Luna was the last of the Nox Flaurets.”

“Technically, Ravus was.”

“He’s dead so it doesn’t fucking matter.”

“I don’t like this conversation,” Prompto announces. He tries leaving but Gladio holds fast.

“Magic or not, Prompto, you can heal.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t just… cast healing touch like some Oracle.”

“You’re not an Oracle,” Noctis says, getting to his feet and yawning. “Maybe you can heal, maybe you can’t. Who knows? Doesn’t matter.” He ruffles Ignis’ hair as he walks past him, earning him an indignant huff. “Maybe the Astrals are bored, maybe Eos itself is trying to get its shit together. All that matters is that we’re here, I’m sleepy, and I need to feed off your body heat. All three of you.”

Gladio snorts, finally easing off Prompto. “I’m gonna start charging per cuddle.”

Ignis watches Prompto fidget, ultimately reaching out to calm him with a fleeting touch. “If not sleep, the least we can do is keep each other company.”

Prompto nods his head, unwilling to keep his dismay hidden. “Yeah. I can do that. I’ll put out the fire. You guys go ahead.”

Ignis seems to hesitate but allows it when he sees Noctis lingering in the background. With one last touch, he disappears into the tent with Gladio.

Prompto takes his time dousing the flames, thoroughly ignoring Noctis as he watches him move about the campsite. Whatever it is he has to say, he knows he isn’t going to like it, so he doesn’t urge any form of communication.

But Noctis catches up.

Before slipping into the tent, Noctis intercepts him. He doesn’t say much, just kisses him long and hard under the moonlight, his hands lingering on the wake of his hips. Dark blue eyes catch his, and Prompto is ashamed to even return the soft gaze.

A traitorous part of him whispers fantasies of him being the King’s Oracle of prophecy, but he shuts it down as suddenly as the thought emerged. He isn’t the Oracle. He will never be it. And he needn’t be in order to be on the receiving end of Noctis’s affections.

He’s just Prompto, and that’s enough for him to return the kiss.

***

_He has seen endlessness. Not darkness, nor void, but eternity in its purest form. All that was and ever will be shrouds him in a glimmering cocoon of beginning and end, and everything in between._

_Cast adrift in the current, Prompto feels the fabric of time and space thread through the cracks of his fingers. It seeps into his pores and expands, creating wholly new worlds._

_With a jolt he realizes that he is dreaming. Dread soon follows when the same feeling of helplessness he always feels within his nightmares becomes present._

_He’s falling, but ever so slowly._

_Stars move out of the way as his body enters stasis. There is no moving here, only thought. There is only being outside of the confines of his own self, and Prompto is disoriented by it._

_However, among the swirling blue, nestled within the walls of shimmering crystal around him, stands Lunafreya._

_It is a version of her Prompto has never seen, dares not even look upon in whatever this place may be._

_The armor she dons is blinding, second only to the beacons that are her eyes. Prompto doesn’t know what makes him believe that the being before him is her, but he’s certain of it. There is no denying._

_He tries to right himself. Orientating in an endless landscape with no direction proves difficult._

Enter into reflection.

_And it’s there, in the booming chorus of voices not meant for human understanding that he hears her voice. It is a thread of kindness in an otherwise titanic amalgamation of horrors._

_He drifts, air leaving his lungs as he no longer experiences the need to breathe._

_There is no need here. No bearing of truth and lie. No difference between light and dark._

_Thunderous cracking catches his attention but that too fades into nothingness, forgotten, irrelevant._

Prompto.

_Her voice cuts through the pitched screeching he hadn’t been made aware of. He tries focusing, but all he can do is listen while bobbing across impossible pathways._

_“Why do I have Light?” he thinks of asking, imagines he’s somehow projected the inquiry but gets no answer. Part of him is curious, the other part of him knows. He’s seen this place once before, briefly, deep within the armored walls of Zegnautus Keep. He’s felt this presence bathe the corners of Lucis since before he was conscious of thought._

_Reflection is difficult when Lunafreya stands before him fiercer than any Astral to have walked the endless lands of Eos._

_Endlessness does not equal emptiness. It is not the absence of materia or self, it is presence immortal. Eternity contained within the limited human mind. Neither beginning nor end, endlessness is what is._

_“Where do we go from here?” he says instead._

The King of Kings is ruler not of land but of Fate.

Fate is Endless.

_“But we’re not.”_

_No reply._

_“His Ascension into divinity was complete. He paid the blood sacrifice.”_

_Still, he floats across Light._

_Lunafreya extends a hand to him and he takes it, stopping only to cast his thoughts into the frozen fabric of the space around him._

_Lost in the fragment of a second Prompto stands at the entrance of a war-torn Citadel, the distant roar of daemons creeping without regard to the heaviness in all of their hearts._

_He watches his King walk tall – alone._

Beware of false prophets,

Of Usurpers hidden within your Star’s Light.

_Blinding light brings Prompto back to the divine creature before him, her golden hair flowing in the sea of time she has brought to a stop._

_He extends his hands, palms up, when he feels her request him to do so._

A King without his heart is no King at all.

_The heavy weight of a weapon materializes onto his hands, forcing him to stand strong. Swooping curves of heat and light form a trident Prompto has seen before, but here he feels no fear at the implication._

True night is not complete without a moon.

No sky is complete without a sun.

No path is complete without guidance.

_“Nothing’s complete,” Prompto says, gripping the trident tight._

True Ascension cannot be obviated—

It may only be forestalled.

_The trident vibrates until it seizes its existence, becoming light that settles into his palms like the heat of a fire. It courses through him, making his bones its new home._

_“I made you a promise,” he says. Clenching his fists, he finds solid ground to stand on. “I made a lot of promises and I intend to keep them with or without the gods’ favor.” Prompto takes a step forward, closing the gap between him and Lunafreya. “You can tell ‘em that.”_

_Through the nightmarish visage of the entity before him, Lunafreya smiles._

Walk tall, my friend.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a _slight_ chapter miscalculation and obviously I only catch it this late in the game. We're looking at 25 chapters and an epilogue, as opposed to the 26 + epilogue I was somehow hung up on because I'm an idiot. ANYWAYS, this was supposed to go up yesterday but my computer decided to install updates and two hours later I was clocked out on my living room floor like the disaster human I am.
> 
> A pretty short chapter that works like a sort of... intro, so to speak. A bridge. A prelude. The ~calm before the storm~ and all that hoopla.

A hand holds fast to his wrist when Prompto sits up in the tent, shivering cold despite the sweat clinging to him. He doesn’t startle and is more surprised that his feverish thrashing in the heat of his nightmares hasn’t woken them all up. Only Gladio, who is peeking up at him through a cracked open eye.

“Go back to sleep, Big Guy,” he says quietly. “Just gotta go to the little girl’s room.”

Gladio frowns, sniffs, and sits up as well. “You still ain’t a good liar.”

He follows Prompto out into the humid night, lingering just out of sight as Prompto relieves himself behind a bush.

“Anything you wanna talk about?”

“Not really,” Prompto says. He hovers near the tent, debating whether or not to crawl back inside.

His mind is made up, regardless.

After waking, Prompto laid unmoving for what felt like hours. He twisted the dream this way and that, trying to make sense of it and connect to the message Luna was trying to convey. All he has are haphazardly concocted theories and incomplete plans, but it’s a start.

Gladio crosses his arms over his bare chest, his sweats clinging low on his hips as he cocks them to one side. His stare is hard on him, unyielding in a way that still makes Prompto nervous after all these years.

“Noct and Iggy aren’t the only ones willing to listen.”

Prompto starts at that, looking up at Gladio with a small smile he hopes comes off as apologetic. “I know that. I just don’t like bugging you with all my mush.”

Gladio scratches the back of his head, shifting his feet as if gearing up to say something he doesn’t want to. “This ain’t mush.”

“Uh, you sure about that?”

“You don’t rest. The moment Iggy starts tossing in his sleep you’re always on it, mumblin’ until he calms down. You’re always on my ass about not staying put for more than an hour a day. Giving Noct shit for not drinking enough water.”

“Just making Iggy’s life easier.”

“This magic business’s got you bothered and I know you want answers. We all do.” Gladio flexes his knuckles and their cracks are deafening in the otherwise silent night. “I thought we were done with the whole brooding in silence bullshit.”

“I’m not brooding. You’re brooding.”

“Don’t make me regret this conversation.”

“Look, I’m fine, Gladio, really.” Prompto makes a vague gesture that utilizes his entire body as if that were enough to quell whatever reservations Gladio is currently having about his current mental and physical state. “Been doing a lot of thinking, making me all moody like, but I swear it isn’t anything too bad. If it were, I’d bitch about it.”

Gladio shakes his head. “That’s what you would’ve done back in the day. Now you’ve gotten real good at keeping it bottled in.”

Prompto winks at him. “Jokes on you. I’ve always been good at keeping it bottled in. It’s just that now I’m too tired to put forward a solid effort at keeping it on the down low.”

“You ain’t helping your case.”

“No case to help,” Prompto holds up a hand, offers him a peace sign. “We’re all trying to sort through our issues, aren’t we? You don’t talk about yours, why should I lay my shit on you?”

“I’ll talk if you want me to,” Gladio says, more like grunts, begrudgingly, as he looks towards the sea with a pinched look on his face.

Prompto hangs back, carefully analyzing the situation. He looks Gladio over, taking in the way he stands and noting the stiffness in his shoulders is more stubbornness than self-preservation. “How about you stop pretending you’re this big tough emotionless sack of potatoes and actually start sharing with the class again.”

“I ain’t the sharing type.”

“Took you weeks before you told us where the hell you even got that scar.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t demand me to open up when you won’t. It’s not fair.”

“To me or to you?”

“Both!”

Gladio huffs. “Fine.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “You and me, we’ll talk.” The side-glance he casts Prompto has him fidgeting because of course, Gladio can see right through him. “After our morning run and before breakfast. How’s that sound?”

Prompto doesn’t answer. He only looks at Gladio with a frown that does nothing to hide the disruption of his plans.

“I don’t know where the fuck you think you’re going,” Gladio says, “but you ain’t going alone.”

Prompto considers lying but decides against it. “I need to think about things.”

“You had more than a decade to do so. If it’s peace and quiet you want, Cape Caem is practically uninhabited.”

“I…”

“Face it, blondie, there ain’t no excuse for you to try and sneak out of here.”

“Fine, I won’t sneak. I’ll tell you straight out that I’m leaving for a couple of days on personal business.”

“Nope, not buying.”

Prompto sighs. “Alright,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “okay, fine. The first time we came here you left. You just up and left, gave us no real reason as to why, and you come back looking like you took on a war all by yourself. Ever stop to think, at least once, how that made us feel?”

“Irritated.”

“Worried!” Prompto nearly shouts before remembering the two still asleep in the tent. “We were worried. Iggy was stressed. Noct kept pacing, putting everything off because he thought it’d be too much a strain on you.”

Gladio scoffs, incredulous. “Too strenuous.”

“It doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t,” Prompto says, trying to make him understand, “what matters is that you stuck around in our heads, that we were relieved when you showed up in one piece… more or less. Because you’re a part of us, man. Maybe one day you’ll actually tell us what the hell you were up to while Noct was gone, but not a day went by when I didn’t think about shooting you a message.”

The waves crash against the rocks with particular force, making his words die out in the dead of night. He’s toe to toe with Gladio now, looking up at him and wondering where all of this suddenly came from.

_Incomplete._

There is a chasm he never truly realized here, between him and Gladio, and he wonders how it went so long without being addressed. It’s mostly his fault, being the odd one out in a group of preexisting friends, but Prompto decides it’s just a good time as any.

Whatever lies ahead of him, the roads behind him will at least be mended.

“I—I want to… understand you, I guess. But I also need you to understand me.”

“You’re doing it again. Ostracizing yourself.”

“Not this time.” Prompto gives him a thumbs up. “I know where I stand. Who I am to myself, to you guys. There’s just something I need to do. And I need to do it by myself.”

There’s a long silence in which Gladio stares at him, expression unreadable.

“Give me one good reason why I should let you go alone.”

“Because you’re not the only one whose reason to live is asleep in that tent.” Prompto sucks in a breath, daring Gladio to argue. “I’m allowed to be his protector, too.”

Much to his surprise, Gladio’s hand comes to rest over his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and Prompto watches Gladio pull away and retreat back into the tent without so much a glance.

It’s long moments before Prompto relocates himself, reminds himself of what he is doing, and makes for the rocky cliff near camp.

He has nothing but his keys on him, but it will have to do.

The night is dark, he doesn’t even know the time, but it doesn’t really matter. He has a purpose, or, at least, the very first step towards figuring out this mess. The fear that everything will unravel into a far worse scenario than the one they’ve lived is very real, but Prompto is far less despondent than he was back then.

He will fight until the bitter end, and then he will continue to raise his fists in defiance.

Bike gassed and ready to go, Prompto is startled by the shadow emerging from the foliage. Gladio jogs up to him with a camping pack, and Prompto has no doubt that whatever is in there is enough to keep him alive for weeks.

“For the record,” Gladio says, doing quick work of tying the pack to the back of the bike, “I think this is a terrible idea. Last time I checked we were a team, and I thought we had agreed not to do shit by ourselves.”

“Thanks, Big Guy,” Prompto deflects, slipping the key into the ignition.

“You ain’t expendable, Prompto.”

Prompto blinks rapidly as he adjusts his position on the bike, the words hitting close to his heart. “Sweet enough to rot some teeth, that.”

“I mean it.”

Prompto nods his head, finding strength in the genuine lilt of Gladio’s gruff words. “Be back in a couple of days. Promise.”

“I’ll keep the fire burning.”

And with that, Prompto turns over the ignition and zips down the highway towards Ravatogh, where most of his nightmares seem to unravel.

***

His watch beeps noon when Prompto reaches the outpost.

He pays no heed to the tourists milling about in search of food and souvenirs as he threads through the myriad of cars to park his bike.

He pockets the key and waits, his hand hovering over his phone and debating whether or not he should shoot the guys a quick message. He tells himself that Gladio can handle it. He’s a lot more concise than Prompto will ever be, and a text will only devolve into him rambling about things that needn’t be voiced. Not right now, at least.

Prompto checks into a room in the newish motel by the hot springs and pays for two days upfront. He gets a third night free for showing up offseason.

The room is nicer than most of the places in Lestallum, excluding the Leville. With a bed that doesn’t creak and a mattress with actual padding, Prompto flops down on it and sighs. He doesn’t budge for hours, watching the sun move across the sky through its reflection against the wall.

He isn’t stalling, he tells himself, and it’s a half-truth.

Odds are he will hike up the mountain and be met with nothing but a handful of reaperkings and a wyvern or two. Some lava and a whole lot of nothing. But convincing himself that dreams are just dreams, that nightmares are just his psyche trying to right itself under stress is difficult in the aftermath of the things he has witnessed.

The memory of near-death hovers in the back of his head, the vague visage of himself pinning him to the dusty floor in Longwythe. The unknown aftermath of the events at the Magitek facility all those years ago. However desperately he may try to grasp the finality of it, the lingering suspicion that the Immortalis may not have been the end hangs over his head.

Paranoia is a powerful weapon, one that keeps him constantly on his toes. He refuses to run, and that is why he’s here.

He’s no Ignis, but damn if Prompto can’t put two and two together. If he truly understood at least one aspect of Luna’s message, then their job isn’t done. They still need Noctis for something far greater than the horrors they have already faced, and the very least Prompto can do is take responsibility for his own daemons.

They will fight what’s to come together, keep their Star safe from whatever is lurking, from the powers not even the Six can control. But this, this is on Prompto. He’ll save his friends a headache, however small it may be if he can.

Not like he’s alone, anyway. He can feel it simmering whenever he closes his eyes, whenever he meditates for longer than ten seconds. Luna is right there, offering the protection she so readily gave in life.

He can also imagine her rolling her eyes at him, trying to convey the fact that he’s being an idiot.

“You faced your fate alone,” Prompto says to the empty room, placing an arm over his eyes. “I wish I could be your level of badass.”

Instead, he’s just a man swimming in an ocean of uncertainties.

“To be completely honest, I’m not sure why I’m doing this. Part of me says it’s to protect the guys, but another part of me insists I just want to prove something to myself. Heck if I know what that something is.”

He roamed Lucis for ten years, slaying daemons and fighting off monsters that threatened the safety of its citizens. He worked tirelessly, pushed himself harder, made himself faster, and became the man he wanted to be when he realized he was done feeling sorry for himself.

Prompto took control of where he was going, directed himself blindly towards a goal his heart pined for.

He now has accepted, with utmost certainty, who he is and where he belongs.

And yet the reason for this stunt escapes him.

Until he knows for certain that every twisted version of himself is gone for good, dispelled from this world, he will not rest.

That’s as good a reason as any.

Sitting up on the bed, Prompto rummages through the pack Gladio gave him. As expected he finds everything from first aid kits to a handful of Cup Noodles, bottles of water, spare clothing, his guns.

Because of course, he had forgotten his guns like some rookie. Rather than turn back, he talked himself into just buying a new pistol at a hunter depot.

It’s a heartwarming surprise that Gladio had been this thorough, organizing everything to properly fit while making it easy to find things. In the side pocket, he finds a small wallet with some spare gil and a disposable phone in case of an emergency.

Prompto smiles down at the pack, his chest feeling full once more. It’s become a common sensation, one he doesn’t tire of and instead fills him with the will to wake up one more day.

This feeling of unconditional love is much different from the comradery they shared when they first left Insomnia. The youthful giddiness that had them going for hours despite Ignis’ and Gladio’s reservations where he was concerned. When their age fueled different aspects of them, abandoning them in a strange stasis when Noctis left them to fend for themselves…

He’s an idiot. The biggest one.

He wouldn’t have had to ask.

All he had to do was say where he was going and why, and they would have readily packed up and joined him without a second thought.

Prompto laughs at himself because he already knew that. He’s going by this whole protecting thing all wrong.

“You win,” he says, mostly to himself, but also to the nonexistent figure he can almost imagine lingering by the bed.

Prompto debates on who to call when he pulls out his phone, decides on Ignis purely out of instinct. His phone beeps, tells him the call cannot be completed, and it’s then that he notices the lack of signal.

“Shit.” He drops the phone onto the bed and frowns. The sun is already setting, and the urge in his gut is telling him that he can’t wait any longer.

Mind made up, Prompto promises he’s only going to scout the area. If anything nasty pops up, he’ll put it down, and if not, he’ll drag his ass back to Cape Caem.

Back home.


	24. Chapter 24

The rumble of rock and hiss of steam accompany Prompto along his hike. The absence of monsters and animals alike the only tell-tale sign that something is amiss. This late at night the volcano is closed to tourists and scientists alike.

The change in altitude isn’t as pronounced as it once was.

Something feels off and Prompto doesn’t need to question it. Guns loaded, hands at the ready, he focuses on the gray darkness around him. If something comes at him odds are he’ll hear it before he’ll see it.

He struggles when the incline becomes steeper and is forced to use his hands to hoist himself up, leaving him open to attack. Luckily, nothing emerges from the stifling heat.

There’s a whole lot of nothing as the hours slip by.

Prompto becomes hyper-aware when his watch reads five in the morning, and there isn’t a single hint of daylight in sight.

He swallows the anxiety expanding at the base of his throat. It threatens to choke him, and all he can do is pray to whatever god is listening that this is all just another nightmare. He can’t take another lifetime of darkness, even one without the threat of daemons.

He continues until he reaches the single haven overlooking the east of Cleigne, where he sits for another hour and wallows in his grief.

All they did. All they fought for.

Prompto tries his phone again to no avail.

Murky darkness settles across the sky and over the land, leaving him shuddering not with fear but with righteous rage.

The cause of this is here, he can feel it with the certainty of the light now boiling within him.

Sitting cross-legged by the fire, Prompto holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers. He can definitely feel it. It’s stronger than when they traveled to Altissia, when he was able to tap into the armiger to summon his weapons. Different, hot enough to physically burn.

Prompto wonders if this is how Noctis constantly felt when the magic of old coursed through his blood.

Out of curiosity, Prompto holds his hand out.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting to happen, but it’s more of the same nothing.

He snorts. Of course it’s nothing. The only thing he can apparently do is accidentally, and very slowly, heal people. He still has no idea how that works, if it’s even him who is doing so, but it’s hardly anything like casting elemency or warping.

Prompto pushes on, to the Royal Tomb and back, past the empty Zu nest, and down the slippery slope of the mountainside.

He wants to call it a day, head back to Cape Caem like he promised himself, but a nagging pull keeps him from doing so just yet.

_If not above, then below._

But there’s nothing below him, really. Not that he’s aware. There are no cavern systems west of Duscae. Gladio would have told him so if there were, adding spelunking to the list of things to do in the outdoors. As it stands, Prompto is confused by the near instinctual whispers that he has to go down.

_Down, down, down you go._

With no other option left, Prompto makes his way out onto the trail. He follows it back to the main road before stopping, looking over his shoulder and trying to picture the mountain as a sort of puzzle. He remembers getting lost the first time around, the endless circles the four of them walked in search of the Royal Tomb despite Noctis’ uncanny ability to sniff them out.

_A passage, hidden in plain sight._

But Prompto had been thorough.

He turns around to face the mountain, hands on his hips as he thinks. What he’s looking for is off the path, he decides. Away from prying eyes. Somewhere inaccessible, difficult to find.

Prompto’s attention strays to the fences closing off the restricted areas and he knows what he has to do.

With no one about, he climbs over them.

The terrain is unstable, a mixture of dry plains and rocky outcrops too dangerous to potentially scale. There are trees, ancient ones long dead with nothing but ashen branches that creak and groan in the still breeze. Shallow, empty caves pepper the miles and miles of rugged earth.

Prompto has seen all of Lucis, he’s seen parts of Accordo and even sectors of Niflheim, but this is unlike anything he has ever seen before.

Untouched wilderness on the side of a mountain eons old, decaying with the heat that bubbles just below the surface. The steam that rises from the rocks seems to tell Prompto to look closer, to see the precise indentations left behind by something other than the elements.

It doesn’t feel barren.

Something writhes miles below his feet.

The stench of something old and hallowed reaches for him, begging Prompto to _see_.

“What is this place?”

Further up the terrain evens out and opens, presenting him with a wide enough path to drive along. He stands at the beginning of it, stunned into place.

He can hear creatures around him but sees nothing, only wispy shadows that are gone once he’s turned towards them.

The smell of sulfur is prevalent.

If he focuses enough he thinks he can almost hear the sound of waves crashing into a rocky shore, but that may as well be his imagination calling him back to the safety of the Cape.

Hands once again over the guns at either side of his hips, Prompto marches on. Up rather than down, for there is no other way to go still.

The place is a maze, jagged pathways built during a bygone era that lead to nowhere force him to turn right around.

He stops glancing at his watch, feeling himself grow tired and hungry as the day passes in a state of constant twilight.

He stops at one point, sitting on a boulder while he eats an energy bar and chugs a bottle of water. He wants to sleep, call it a week, but the tug in his gut is insistent.

He’s close, so very close he can taste it.

Despite the sweat clinging to his skin Prompto feels cold. A heady mixture of fear and uncertainty keeps him from ending his break any sooner. He knows he messed up, tries to fight that inner turmoil of running away with his tail between his legs and tracking down a potential enemy all by his lonesome.

Prompto can imagine the lecture Ignis will dish out once they’re in the same room again. Noctis will most likely give him the cold shoulder by walking away from him, asking why Prompto continues to do the things he does. Gladio will probably shake his head and call him an idiot, throw in an I-told-you-so for good measure.

_Stop ostracizing yourself,_ Prompto thinks, and it sounds an awful lot like Gladio’s voice.

Working the tense muscles on the back of his neck with a sigh, Prompto freezes when he catches it.

It’s a brief gleam in the otherwise dark abyss a couple of miles above him. He tries the same motion and – _there it is!_

Catching what little light there is, is something reflective, something man-made, and Prompto is quick to jump on his feet and fling the pack over his shoulder. There’s no telling what he’s seeing this far below; he only knows that whatever it is shouldn’t be there, and it’s a good a lead as any.

“Uh-uh, no, not so fast.”

He nearly stumbles at the sound of the disembodied voice, standing perfectly still as he tries to find the source.

“You know, you’re a stubborn little critter. I like to consider that a positive quality… on the right person.”

Prompto slowly puts the pack back down.

The voice seems to be coming from everywhere, bouncing off the rocks around him and echoing inside of his head. He recognizes the sound of it, however, and the twist in his gut is painful enough to keep him from straightening up.

“The thing about religion, faith, the cosmogony, whatever you like to call it, is that it only ever works when the worshipper pays attention to what the deity is trying to say. Say, a god tells you to kill your first-born son – you listen. A benevolent god will stop you before you do the killing, a war god will see the devotion in you and demand you slaughter entire kingdoms. But, don’t worry, said war god will repay you handsomely.”

The voice gets closer, its pitch and tone changing to something more familiar still.

“When I said your king shouldn’t be poking at things bigger than him, that also included you, oh obnoxious one.”

Prompto finally finds it, casually leaning against a tree and inspecting its nails.

“And don’t worry, I don’t actually look like you,” it says. “I don’t look like anything you could possibly imagine, so I took the liberty of borrowing one of your many brothers.”

Prompto’s hand twitches, torn between looking away in disgust and refusing to give it any sort of satisfaction. He stands his ground, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“I won’t be here long,” it continues, stepping closer with a swagger reminiscent of that of a certain deceased chancellor. “Let’s just say I knew your stubbornness would bring you here, and I had to make certain your little wayward stint wouldn’t make a mess of things.”

“Whatever it is you’re planning, it isn’t going to work,” Prompto says, boldly closing what little space is between them. As unsettling as it may be, it’s unspeakably easy to face down himself.

The being laughs, and it sounds nothing like him. It’s the crackle of lightning and the crashing of storm-whipped waves, the deafening rumble of earth caving in on itself. It’s the last wails of a dying MT, the agonizing scrape of crumbling metal.

The being tips forward as if lacking control of the body it inhabits, and grins. “You see, that’s the problem right there. You think you have some sort of power, some say when it comes to this. But you don’t. The Six thought themselves clever when they bestowed upon you insufferable bugs their blessing. Well, now what are you going to do without them?”

Fear switches to adrenaline within a mere second, and Prompto squares his shoulders in defiance. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

The world tips and suddenly Prompto’s on his back. Wet heat douses the length of it and he groans in pain, blinking at the starless sky above. He takes only a moment to bounce back, pistol at the ready and firing off two rounds point blank.

The bullets go right through it, sending it into another bout of horrifying laughter.

“Little boy, little boy, what do we have here?” it sing-songs, spinning on its heels to portray its own disturbing version of Prompto. “Even telling you straight out you don’t seem to grasp the gravity of your situation.”

Prompto keeps firing, slowly moving around it in search of any weak points. But the being is unfazed, continues on talking as if it has all the time in the world.

“If you so much as _think_ —” the being roars, the unsettling cheerfulness twisting into abysmal ferocity, “that the all-consuming inferno you and your friends experienced was a bad time, I dare you to even look in the direction of what’s coming.”

Prompto dodges out of the way when a rain of razor-sharp rocks come towards him, but he isn’t fast enough. The sharp burning on his side doesn’t deter him, however, and he quickly crouches behind a boulder to regroup.

“You humans, all of you, are a shit-show,” it bellows, the ground underneath shaking with the force of its words. “Were I allowed to implode this forsaken spit of light off the face of the cosmos, I would. I might, still, do so, now that you and your little pack have thrown things in for a loop. I’ll have you know, most of us aren’t too happy with that.”

Back to the boulder, Prompto wills his hands to stop shaking. “Don’t you ever fucking stop talking?”

“It’s a god thing. It’s kinda what we do.”

“You aren’t a god.”

“Come and tell that to my face, kid.”

“You don’t talk like one.”

The being makes a sound similar to a sigh. “Look around you. You blindly accept the order the things, the history, your Eos, and yet you can’t accept the simple fact that I talk like you.”

“Personally,” Prompto says, struggling to keep his voice even, “I’ve met some of the Six. They’re assholes, but at least they were polite about it. Shiva’s pretty chill, though.” There’s a moment’s silence. “Get it?”

The silence continues and Prompto can almost hear the being think.

“Why are you stalling?” it says at long last, finally making sense of what Prompto is doing.

“Honest answer? Cause I don’t fucking know what to do next. I can’t shoot you, so that’s about it for me.”

Another burst of laughter, this one incredulous. “And here I was, here we all were, actually threatened by you.”

Prompto stills with the dawning realization. What Luna meant when she spoke of a king without his heart and other incomplete things.

He may have his expertise, each of them does, but they’re not much of a threat on their own.

Lesson learned.

“You’re scared,” Prompto says. “Even without our magic, you’re scared of us.”

The world shifts again.

This time, there’s a foot crushing Prompto’s windpipe.

“Know your place, your insolent puddle of mud. You and your race are nothing. This entire Star is nothing. Your gods are nothing. The very least you could do is beg I make your death swift and painless.” It presses down harder and Prompto struggles to get it off, fingers meekly grabbing and slipping against the boot. “Let’s see how well the King of Kings fathoms with one less man.”

“Do it.”

The boot eases off only by a fragment. “Come again?”

“Do it, wuss.”

The being refrains from adding any more weight and instead watches Prompto wheeze as he frantically takes air into his lungs. “You would willingly die here, all by yourself.”

“You won’t bother them if I do.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’m going to do something, make a choice, I don’t know, and it’s going to spur them into challenging you assholes. That’s what you’re trying to avoid. Why you brought me here, why you brought Noct back and healed Ignis.”

“Your simple-mindedness astounds me.”

“Or that choice was already made when I decided to come here,” Prompto says, laughing when he goes out on a limb, a part of the puzzle jamming into place. “Kill me or not, they’re gonna come for you. And they’re mowing your ass to the fucking ground.”

Hands wrapping around the being’s ankles, Prompto gathers strength foreign to him and flips it, but the being is faster, catching itself and creating distance between them.

“Ignis challenged the Lucii and won,” he says with a hoarse voice, clenching his fists. “A power stronger than that of the Six made its home within Noctis, and he’s alive and kicking. We may not be much, but fuck you if you think we aren’t enough!”

Searing heat burns from the tip of his toes, curling in fine wisps up his legs and along the rest of him, curving at his shoulders and spilling out of his fingertips. It scorches him from the inside out, all-consuming, and he gives no quarter.

Feet firmly planted, Prompto bares his teeth.

“So tell your friends you chose the wrong Star.”

Hands empty, Prompto reaches out with enough force to displace his shoulder, but with wide eyes and mind-numbing shock, he witnesses the appearance of a ghostly trident waiting for his call. It lingers just out of reach, twirling mere inches from his open palm.

Its blue light pulses hotly, connecting with the fierce glow of his hands.

Nonplussed, the being shakes his head. “Let’s see what you can do with that.”

Without having to touch the weapon, Prompto moves it in front of him to block the oncoming blow. It’s hard enough to knock him back, but not enough to make him fall.

“I love it when lesser gods can’t keep track of their own prophecies,” the being says, pushing harder against the trident. “It’s been a couple thousand years, however, so who’s keeping track?”

Prompto tries to maneuver the trident but falters, the movement of his hands awkward. He doesn’t know how to control any weapon other than his guns when it came to the armiger, perhaps the occasional mace, but nothing as elegant as this. It doesn’t even feel the same as the armiger once did.

“A fish out of water. What good are astral weapons if you don’t know how to use them?”

Prompto knows just enough to pull back and shove, putting his weight into it.

It happens quickly, more instinct than finesse or any sort of skill, but the trident becomes embedded in the beings chest. Light spills from the perforations, but the being remains unfazed, if not a little bit annoyed.

“I take it back. I’ll make sure you feel every agonizing snap as I pull your atoms apart and destroy them one by one.”

Another blow to the chest sends Prompto crashing onto the ground, his head colliding full-force with the craggy edge of the mountain.

Something cold drips down his face, pooling in his eyes and seeping into his mouth. He can’t move, an invisible force keeping him pinned as his bones begin to ache, to burn, and Prompto breathes out a sigh.

There are blurry pinpricks of light in the sky regardless of the edges of his vision turning dark. He finds peace in the fact that he can see the stars at this very moment, where city lights cannot drown them out.

He wonders if each twinkle is its own Eos, brimming with life and death and beauty and love.

He wonders if there are people there, people willing to fight to protect what they love. People looking up at their own sky and seeing him where he lies, ready to go wherever the dead go.

At fifteen, Prompto feared dying by his own hand.

At twenty, he feared dying alone.

At thirty, he feared dying without seeing Noctis one more time.

Now, at thirty five, Prompto doesn’t fear death. He’s served his purpose, fought until the very end, and he goes knowing that somewhere in Cape Caem, underneath the same stars, Noctis, Ignis, and Gladio are safe.

The crack and snap in his ears do nothing to quell his smile.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” and that’s Noctis’ voice, scolding amidst the deafening rumble around him.

Prompto’s moving, not of his own volition, but because there are hands hoisting him up.

He blinks open his eyes and flinches, momentarily blinded by the view in front of him.

He can see the outline of Noctis’ back as he charges away from him, numerous ghostly weapons hovering over him like divine wings. Their blue light makes him shine brighter than the lava flowing not feet away from him.

Disoriented, Prompto struggles to right himself only to find he can’t move.

“Don’t,” Gladio says, “it’s gonna take more than a couple of potions to fix this.”

Prompto tries to speak, but Ignis shushes him. “You’ve done your part, Prompto. Let us take care of the rest.”

He shakes his head, tries to tell them that it’s no use, but consciousness is a fickle thing as his head continuously lulls, threatening to pull him under.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Gladio says, the gruffness of his tone bringing Prompto back if only for a moment. “This is our fight, too.”

He would agree if he could speak, wants to tell him that he’s sorry, that he misread the entire situation. But as is, staying awake is difficult.

The sound of clashing steel brings his attention to the fight before him, and Prompto’s breath abandons him once more at the sight of Noctis commanding the armiger with the grace and authority of a true ruler granting no quarter.

He has no need to touch the ground, moving through the air with the beauty and ruthlessness of a god. Prompto has fought beside him countless times but never has he witnessed the raw power with which Noctis commands the very space surrounding him.

“We ‘ave to help him.”

Ignis turns to Prompto, pushing up his glasses. “You can barely breathe, let alone move.”

“Whatever this thing is,” Prompto grunts when his head throbs hard enough to blur his vision again, “we can take it. All four of us.”

“Iggy and I’ll help Noct.”

Prompto shakes his head, rocking himself forward onto his hands and knees. He nearly vomits but is just able to keep it in check long enough to steady the constant moving of the ground below him.

Ignis and Gladio grab an arm each and help him up onto his feet.

“I started this,” he says, unable to fight back the violent trembling of his limbs. “We’re finishing it together.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation before they both nod. “I’m assuming you also have access to the armiger,” Gladio says.

Prompto nods. “I can call the Trident of the Oracle.”

“Call whatever the fuck you can and let’s get it over with.”

Gladio charges on ahead, swinging his great sword with ease.

Beside him, Ignis stalls. “Are you certain?”

“Mostly out for the count but still here.” Prompto nods his head. “Just like old times.”

Daggers in hand, Ignis nudges his arm. “For old time’s sake.”

At Noctis’ call they all pause, watching him outstretch an arm as his weapons form a halo that multiplies by the second.

Prompto has never seen so many of them, having only ever witnessed the thirteen he’s summoned for years.

As impressive as it is terrifying, Prompto struggles to stay on his feet when Ignis bounds across the rocky terrain to stand by Noctis.

They’re fighting a winning battle, the being fighting back with forces unseen, but it isn’t enough. It retaliates, moves the ground beneath them, roars its fury as they unleash everything they have and still – it refuses to give.

At the end of his rope, Prompto inches himself towards the epicenter of the battle.

Pain has transcended the barrier into numbness, potions and elixirs alike having no effect on his wounds. Still, he soldiers on. He must. Prompto will be there until the grizzly end.

He props himself up on a steaming boulder and aims his pistol. The very least he can do is annoy the thing enough to get its attention elsewhere, granting Noctis a possible opening.

It works, somewhat.

Gladio comes from behind the moment it focuses its attention on Prompto, delivering a powerful downward swipe of his sword that is carried by both strength and momentum.

Ignis ambushes head-on, lance poised at the ready as he pierces the being through the chest the moment it falls back from the force behind Gladio’s attack.

Pinned and exposed, with no defense left, Noctis commands his armiger to attention.

With each weapon ready to strike, Prompto sees the fault before anyone else. There’s a gap among the crystalline glaives, a missing component.

_Incomplete._

Prompto lifts his own hand with the very last of his strength, battered and beaten, muttering foreign words below his breath to call forth the Trident.

He calls upon the Kings of Lucis past, the slumbering Astrals in the ether, to anyone willing to listen to his words – Eos herself, her soul free of the Crystal and coursing through her Star, through him, with the holy light bestowed unto them as a gift, a gift this being and its kind cannot steal from them.

Words spill from his mouth, words he cannot make, much less understand, but they come with the ease of natural born breath. It is a part of him, the very life force that keeps him standing, and it is enough.

By the gods, it is enough.


	25. Chapter 25

Quiet.

There is stillness.

There is softness, and warmth.

Peace, tranquility, quiet.

He isn’t alone, the presence of someone pressed to his side and slightly tipping the world off balance is unspeakably comforting. There’s humming, soft and melodic, and Prompto thinks about the tickle of waves against his toes and kisses along his shoulders.

It isn’t long before he opens his eyes and realizes he’s in a world of fucking pain.

His muffled groan is instantly met with a gentle hand to his forehead, calloused fingers deftly pressing along his face in search of something. Even through the blurriness of his vision, the unmistakable dark blob is none other than Noctis.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says once he deems Prompto okay enough to not merit constant poking and prodding. “Sleep well?”

Prompto groans again, keeping as still as possible in hopes to not aggravate any inch of him ready to scream a complaint. “I think I did,” he croaks, throat bone dry.

Noctis holds a cup of water with a bendy straw up to him. “You’ve been out a couple of days. Was starting to get a little worried there.”

“Six forbid anyone out-sleep you.”

“Record-holding champion. Can’t have you stealing that title.”

Prompto smiles despite himself, fingers reaching out in a silent request. Noctis answers without a second thought, taking his hand and giving it a soft squeeze.

“I’m sorry for running off.”

“Iggy said you’re grounded.”

“I’ll do chores for the rest of forever. I’m cool with that.”

From his spot on the bed, Prompto tries to gauge any sort of damage. Aside from a particularly nasty shiner under his left eye, Noctis looks to be faring a lot better than him. And that’s all that matters, really.

Past Noctis, the curtains are open, and the late afternoon sun shines through clean windows.

He momentarily wonders if they’ve all died, but he figures he wouldn’t be in this much pain had this been the afterlife.

“Gladio and Iggy?”

Noctis gestures towards the bed Prompto can barely see out of the corner of his eye without having to turn his head. There, he can see the outline of two lumps under white sheets.

“Told them they could take a nap while I watched over you.”

“What the hell happened?” Prompto says, lowering his voice.

“You tell me.” Noctis bends one leg over the other, his free hand now stroking absent patterns onto the back of Prompto’s own. “By the time we got there it was past the point of stab first ask questions later.”

“There are no daemons.”

“I could’ve told you that.”

“No, I mean, this is something new. It kept saying how it was above the Six, how there were more like it and it didn’t like us sticking our noses in their business.”

Noctis frowns thoughtfully, jaw clenching. “It took a lot to take it down.”

“Is it dead?”

“I don’t know.” His tone says something else entirely, but before Prompto can call him out on it Noctis shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Shit.”

“We alerted Hunter HQ as well as the remaining Kingsglaive. They’re keeping an eye out for any potential sightings.”

“That’s something.”

“It looked like you.”

Prompto shuts his eyes, the quiver in Noctis’ voice an overwhelming force. While fighting a physical image of himself is a step above the gut-wrenching war he often fights against the mirror, Prompto can only begin to fathom how much of a burden it must have been for his friends.

“It wasn’t me.”

He wonders what it said to them. If it taunted them how it taunted him. If it knew how to get under their skin.

“I know,” Noctis says, “Its face was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.”

It’s Prompto’s turn to frown. “I think it did a pretty good job at it. Until it talked.”

“The freckles were all off.”

Prompto snorts out a laugh, momentarily forgetting about the two sleeping next to them. “You’re telling me you had time to look at its freckles?” He thinks for a moment. “How can you even tell the difference between mine and anybody else’s?”

The hand caressing Prompto’s reaches up to softly trace a thumb along the top of Prompto’s cheek. “You’re too cute.”

“Come on, man. I’m trying to recover and here you are making me weak at the knees.”

Noctis answers with a laugh of his own, soft enough to tickle the inside of Prompto’s stomach.

There’s a moment in which they stare at each other, searching for something neither voices but is blatantly true. There is so much to talk about, answers afforded yet a dozen new questions laid out in front of them.

Instead, Noctis turns over where he’s sitting and carefully lays down next to him, head tucked underneath Prompto’s chin.

The movement makes everything ache anew, but Prompto welcomes it. He’s alive, they all are, and he’s able to feel the press of Noctis’ body against him like a security blanket. It’s warm, a pleasant type of weight, and Prompto could sleep forever like this.

“That morning on the beach,” Noctis says at one point, well after his breath has evened out and Prompto thought him asleep. “Do you remember that?”

“When you told me how you felt about water?”

“That’s one thing to remember that day by.”

“Sure, I remember.”

“You didn’t speak our language.”

Prompto looks down at him, confused. “Pretty sure I was, buddy.”

“There was a moment… you were so caught up in it,” Noctis struggles to put it into words, but he marches on anyway. “You were speaking the tongue of the Astrals.”

The noise Prompto makes isn’t entirely human, but it’s an amused one nonetheless. “I heard that’s what happens when you have really good sex.”

Noctis lightly pinches his side, but it’s enough to make him flinch and giggle. “I’ve only ever heard two people speak it and I’m one of them.”

“Lunafreya,” Prompto says with a nod. “She keeps popping up everywhere.”

Noctis lifts his head to stare at him, wide-eyed. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t come here to chillax in the hot springs, dude.”

“We’re in Lestallum.”

“Oh.”

“You… you _spoke_ with her?”

“Ish,” Prompto says. “The Realms are unbalanced and I think she’s trying real hard to fix them, you know? There’s only so much she can do by herself. I think she wants us to help.” He pauses and shakes his head. “I want you to know that I totally just made that up but fuck does it feel like that’s exactly what’s going on.”

Noctis is pensive, now resting on his elbow and hovering over Prompto. “You used the Trident before I even got there.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re channeling her?”

“I don’t know, man. But you used the armiger and that shit was on fortifiers. I wasn’t even aware there were so many glaives.”

Noctis blows out a breath. “One hundred and ten.”

“You _counted_ them?”

“You called the Trident but there’s still two missing.” Noctis smirks down at him. “No. But when you use your life force to summon spiritual weapons you’re kind of in-tuned with them.”

“Really does feel like everything is out of whack.”

“Yeah, well, it can stay that way a little while longer,” Noctis says. “We’ll figure it out, somehow. For now, you need to rest.”

“We all do.”

“Those two are way ahead of us.”

Prompto closes his eyes once more, letting the world fall away.

Bruised and battered, all that matters is that they’re still here. In the comfort of a warm bed, in the light of a setting sun, they’re still here.

Sleep tugs at him, but even still he feels Noctis press a kiss to his knuckles. “Still with me, Prom?” he asks, drowsiness slurring his words.

With a hum, Prompto smiles.

“Ever at your side.”


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, folks! The end of the beginning, so to speak. It's been a wild and enjoyable journey these past couple of months and I would like to thank, from the deepest pits of my heart, everyone who took the time to open this baby up and give it a read. You've all been absolutely wonderful and I hope you drop by again! ❤
> 
> If you're wondering what this epilogue is about,[ I suggest you click this here link!](http://astramaxima.tumblr.com/post/175938928925/series-update) It's but a mere description of what's to come with this not-so-little AU that's accidentally snowballed out of control. Heh.
> 
> Have a great rest of your week, everyone! Until next time.

Math often comes naturally to Prompto, being able to conceptualize distances and calculate differences within the fragment of a moment. He can probably math faster than the calculator app on his phone, but that may be due to how old his phone actually is. He adds that to the list of things he needs to get once they make the drive to Insomnia.

But, back to math.

Ignis said a quarter inch per slice. Easy enough if he didn’t have to slice his way through six celery hearts before the broth begins to thicken and the whole stew is ruined.

This whole life swap thing was a bad idea. Sure, Prompto’s been apprenticing under Ignis for almost a year now but ten months isn’t enough to master the kitchen on a spiritual level, like Ignis likes to say.

Huffing out the stress of vegetable chopping, Prompto startles after he fails to hear the shuffling of bare feet over wooden floors and a forehead thumps down against his shoulder. Warm arms wrap around his middle, but the hands that press onto his bare hips are ice cold.

Prompto yelps. “Seriously? We even got you a space heater.”

Noctis grumbles. “I wouldn’t be this cold if either of you were in bed with me.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“It’s also the weekend.”

“You were also supposed to be up early to feed the chocobos.”

“Shit,” Noctis says, head shooting up. “Oh, shit, I fucked up. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t sweat it,” Prompto interrupts, leaning over to press a kiss to Noctis’ temple. “Gladio got on it two minutes after you promised you’d wake up, your Majesty.”

“I didn’t hear the alarm.”

“That’s because I’m pretty sure you deactivated it before you fell asleep.”

Noctis hums, dragging the tip of his nose along the column of Prompto’s exposed neck. “In my defense, I did it with you guys in mind.”

“Much noble, very wow.” Still, Prompto tips his head to the side to grant him more space to caress. “Even if we’re up all night to get lucky I’m pretty damn sure the three of us can run on three hours of sleep.”

Noctis dips a hand past the waistband of Prompto’s sweatpants, a fingertip teasing the wiry hairs that lead to Noctis’ happy place. “Those memes are at least ten years old.”

“Still wholesome, though.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Says the guy with a hand down my pants.”

“Are you not turned on by this at all?” Noctis sounds genuinely offended, but that soon gives way to an endearing chuckle when he opts instead to nuzzle the side of Prompto’s face. “Alright, fine. Chop your forsaken vegetables. I’ll just… stay right here and watch you murder them.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Not as hot as that,” Noctis says, gesturing out the window above the counter in front of them. “Is he okay?”

Outside, Gladio struggles to pin up the seemingly random pieces of laundry Ignis insists shouldn’t be thrown in the dryer. He has a pretty good system going, with the wet items stretched out and neatly piled atop a wooden table just within distance. A small basket with clothespins rests on it.

He’s concentrated, stuck in a loop of hang, pin, scroll that is most likely therapeutic, requiring very little thought and minimal action. Gladio’s also wearing shorts and sandals, which isn’t very hot at all.

“Think Iggy’s faring any better with the lighthouse?” Noctis says, tightening his arms around Prompto when he nudges the celery stick to the side and grabs another.

“Knowing Iggy, he’s probably more than halfway done. Surprised he hasn’t popped his head in to make sure I haven’t burnt it down. I’m on a role here, look. Not a single piece of fabric has caught fire.”

“Cause you’re a badass.”

“Hell yeah, I am!” Noctis huffs in his ear, softly nibbling on the lobe. “And you’re distracting.”

“Enough for a quickie?”

“Noct!” Prompto laughs, nudging him away with his shoulder. “You’re insatiable, dude.”

“I mean, have you seen my boyfriends?”

Prompto’s cheeks warm, the word a foreign one despite Noctis’ casual use of it during the past couple of months. “Guess you’re right.”

“Think Iggy’ll bring out the ribbon again if I ask nicely?”

“ _Six_ ,” Prompto says, giggling despite the embarrassment. “Only if he’s the one tied up this time. I’m tired of constantly being on my knees for two hours. There’s only so much dick I can take.”

Noctis hums again, pressing himself closer to Prompto’s back. “You like it, though, right?”

Prompto nods his head without shame.

Noctis lets Prompto move on with the cooking, retreating to the kitchen table to leaf through the fishing magazine Iris dropped off last week.

Celery in the pot, Prompto moves onto the potatoes, deftly peeling them with the same efficiency Cor trained him with decades ago. He chops them into perfect cubes and sets them aside, bypassing the carrots despite Ignis’ strict instructions to add them regardless of the royal bitching and moaning that might ensure.

Instead, Prompto reaches for the herbs.

He works quickly, mind wandering as he hums some song that’s been stuck in his head since waking and hasn’t left him since.

“I love you.”

Prompto’s hand hesitates for half a moment before continuing with its chopping, thinking he’s imagined it. If he did, it’s to be expected. The phrase delivers a solid blow to his chest, leaving him weak and bleeding, vulnerable to whatever may come.

“Hey. Hey, Prom, come on. There’s no need to cry about it,” Noctis says, crossing the kitchen again with a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s okay.”

Dabbing the back of his hand against his face, Prompto’s surprised by the tears he hadn’t even been aware of. “Oh, wow, would ya’ look at that.” He chuckles, but even that sound breaks in his throat as he puts the knife down and collapses into Noctis.

He clings to him as if only just accepting that the man he’s breathing in is actually him. This is Noctis – his best friend, his prince, his king, the love of his life. This is him and he is alive, in his arms, lovingly shushing him and whispering words of endearment.

“I love you so much,” Prompto whispers right back. There’s no colossal wave of relief, no fireworks or Eos-shaking cataclysm, but the subtle lift of a weight that’s sunk Prompto’s heart for almost thirty years. “I can’t believe I’ve never actually told you that.”

Noctis comforts him by softly dragging his nails along Prompto’s nape. “To be honest, we’ve had a lot on our plate.”

Prompto pulls away enough to bump their foreheads together. “Ready to take on the world.”

***

By the time dinner is served and praises are showered onto the day’s chef, they’re all a little tipsy and laughing raucously at the table.

Every time Gladio smacks his palm against the surface a can of beer topples over, mostly empty ones, but Prompto slyly comments on him being thrown into laundry duty again if it gets on anyone’s clothes. Gladio just announces that he will gladly hang all of their delicates for any potential guests to see, and that alone sends Noctis into an uncontrollable bout of giggles that proves infectious.

Ignis has swapped his beer for coffee, but even he’s running a hand through his hair and letting it hang loose over his eyes. He grins into his mug, kicks Prompto back when he’s accidentally shoved underneath the table. “Mind your manners,” he quips with no real heat behind the words.

“Guys, the chocobos are gonna get restless if we keep being this loud.”

“Aw,” Gladio says, leaning over to poke Prompto’s arm. “Looks like the title for World’s Fussiest Mom is up for grabs, Iggy.”

Ignis scoffs. “He can have it. His cooking prowess may just as well surpass mine one day.”

“Sounds to me like someone’s jealous,” Noctis says.

“Just a tad,” Ignis confesses around a barely perceptible smile.

“No need, Iggy,” Prompto says, “you fixed the elevator when even I couldn’t. That’s pretty damn neat if you ask me.”

“Nothing a quick internet search couldn’t solve.”

“Just take the compliment, Specs.”

“I’m only accepting physical praises at this point in time.”

Gladio whistles and bites his bottom lip, comically wagging his eyebrows. “Now we’re talking.”

“Dishes first,” Ignis warns, crossing his legs and shooting Prompto a pointed look. “The chef may retire early if he so wishes.”

“What,” Noctis points a finger at him, “so that the two of you can get a head start?”

“Hell yeah,” Prompto says, slamming his can down with a grin. “I’m calling the shots tonight.”

Miraculously, the rest of them agree.

“However,” Ignis says, drawing all of their attention to him, “before anything else is said or done, there’s something I would like you all to see.”

They watch him retreat into the living room and return with a box in hand.

It’s old and dusty, potentially ruined by water, and it’s as nondescript as the average storage box. The seal has been ripped off, presumably by Ignis, and hangs freely from the flaps.

“I found this underneath the floorboards of the secret harbor. It was hidden in a nook, no doubt decades ago judging by its condition.” He places it on the table, opens it, and pulls out a book. “Your father’s initials are on it.”

The three of them are on their feet at once, peering over the contents that Ignis is holding.

Noctis frowns, pulling the box towards him and reaching for another book bound in a similar fashion. “That’s weird.”

“Along with twenty Lucian rulers before him.” The room goes silent. “That is, as far as I can tell. The signatures are in the dozens. One hundred and thirteen, were I to take a gander, but the scripture is far too faded for me to confirm it.”

Ignis opens the book in his hand and flips it to the last pages.

Prompto looks over his shoulder and sees that most of the initials do end in L. C.

Noctis turns the pages of the book he’s holding, shaking his head as his eyebrows pinch together in thought. He’s hardly being careful with it, and Ignis tsks him for his carelessness. “I can’t read any of it.”

“Neither can I,” says Ignis, carefully putting the book down on the table. “I can’t fathom why multiple coded tomes would need to be hidden away like this.”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Prompto says. He’s played enough video games to know how this kind of thing goes. “Kingdom secrets, most likely. I’m talking super-secret stuff.”

“Enough to span from the founding of Lucis?” Gladio plucks the book out of Noctis’ hands, worried he’ll damage it more than it already is. “This should be in the Citadel’s private library.”

“Good thing it wasn’t,” says Prompto, flicking him in the arm. “Who knows what Ardyn would’ve done with something like this.”

“That is assuming he would have found it. It being a huge question mark because I have no idea what it is.” Noctis scratches the back of his head. “What the hell?”

Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose with a sigh. “Whatever it may be, we can try to decide what we will do with it in the morning. I was curious and, I’ll admit, a little excited to share it with you.”

Gladio and Noctis are about to give Ignis crap for the confessed weakness, but Prompto focuses instead on the way some of the lines on both books vaguely connect. He pushes them together and they don’t quite fit, but there’s a coherence to it that tells him it could fit if he looked at it from another angle.

“Niflheim,” he says, catching their attention as he drags his finger across a darkened patch of weathered paper. The ink is newer as opposed to the rest of the scribbles.

“I suppose so.”

“Galahd,” Gladio points out, referring to another bit. “That’s Lucis.”

“That vaguely looks like Accordo,” Noctis says, “kind of.”

“Then…” Ignis leans closer, squinting at the book. “What’s all of this?”

“It’s a map,” Gladio says.

“Of _what_?”

“That can’t be Eos,” says Prompto, nearly breathless as he half climbs on the table to get a better look. “It looks like it but it can’t be. Look at this.” He traces a rift between two unlabeled land masses. “I almost failed geography but I know what Eos looks like.”

They stare on in heavy silence, the implication of what they hold in their hands beyond comprehension.

“Holy shit,” is about all Prompto can think of saying.

“Iggy?” Gladio prompts.

“Noct?” Ignis tries instead.

Noctis shakes his head. “I have no idea… but I think our world just got a whole lot bigger.”

Shutting the books with a decisive thump, Ignis delicately deposits them into the box he found them in. “As thrilling as the idea may be, I still insist we get some rest before our imaginations run away with us.”

“If you think I’m gonna be able to sleep after that… Whoo, buddy, you got another thing coming.”

“Holy shit,” Noctis echoes Prompto’s earlier sentiment. “I don’t even know what to think other than I’m down to find out whether or not this is an actual map.”

“I feel like that’s the opposite of what we should do,” Ignis reprimands, “unfortunately, curiosity seems to be getting the best of me lately.”

Gladio sniffs, flinging an arm around Prompto’s neck and pulling him against his side. “Ain’t we too old for roadtrips?”

“I’m down if you are,” Prompto says. “We can hire someone to watch over the homestead while we’re gone! Someone we can trust, obviously. I’m not leaving my chicks with just anybody.” He breathes. “We should leave like right now.”

“Easy there,” says Noctis, rubbing his hands across his face and muffling his own words. “Research first. For all we know this can be some sort of joke.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the Lucii were all for playing never-have-I-ever on leather-bound tomes that span more than a couple centuries.”

“What do you know what kings do for fun?”

“Me.”

Noctis nods. “Just because that’s true for me doesn't mean it’s true for every other monarch before me.”

“And just like that,” Gladio says, “we’re back to the subject of sex.”

“Because the three of you are rampaging hormonal teenagers,” Ignis says, ending the conversation by turning on his heels and mounting the stairs up to their bedroom. “Daemon hunters to treasure hunters. No rest for the wicked.”

“Whoa, whoa! Who said anything about treasure?”

“It’s just like in those video games you play,” Ignis says over his shoulder, casting them a coy look. “Am I wrong?”

Prompto blinks at the obvious attempt at seduction, and it works. “Welp, guess I’m banging Iggy tonight.”

Noctis snorts. “Trust Specs to get turned on by old books.” He gasps, however, when Gladio smacks him on the ass. “Hey!”

“We don’t kink-shame in this household,” says Gladio. “Now get up there, Majesty. There’s one more chore that needs to get done.”

“Like I said,” Prompto jogs up the stairs, Noctis and Gladio hot on his heels, “as long as I’m not the one on my knees again, we’re in business.”

The only reply he gets is from Gladio who grabs him by the waist and throws him over his shoulder with ease, ushering Noctis into the room with a regal bow that has them all laughing like a bunch of idiots before closing the door behind him.

The road can wait until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi over @ [tumblr](http://astramaxima.tumblr.com/)!


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